Bravura
by Clairose
Summary: The things we are told as children stay with us forever, whether you grow up with just the shirt on your back, or surrounded by useless decadence. . .as the events of Bane's occupation unfold, four people discover both the beauty and downfall of caring for another, despite the scar tissue their pasts have left behind. Blake/OC, Bruce/Selina. Pre & Post DKR.
1. Life is full of happy accidents

I don't own anything, except the original aspects of this story. All else goes to Christopher Nolan and team.

This will be my first foray into Dark Knight fanfic. I have the story outlined, and am bursting to write more. This kicks off a few weeks before the events of TDKR and this will eventually contain spoilers. Please let me know how you like it.

X X X

Bravura

_"Life is full of happy accidents."_

X X X

The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses echo dully in her ears. She can't remember how long she's been standing there, like one of her parents' commissioned marble statues, faking pleasantries and asking polite questions about this family's upstate cabin or that man's financial portfolio. Her parents want her there to mingle, to socialize and perhaps to catch the eye of some dashing stockbroker so that she'll no longer be a burden to them. Their daughter who doesn't want to attend graduate school, their daughter who can't quite seem to rise up to all the expectations they hold so high above her head.

They are throwing another party in her honor, to celebrate the fact that she's been a graduate for two years and has yet to land a job or a husband. In her parent' eyes, this means she has nothing to show for her hard work. From her perspective, however, she could write a very exposing and very unladylike account of her father's business dealings and all the ugly things her parents scream at each other behind closed doors when they think nobody's listening.

She excuses herself from the older woman she's been listening to drone on about her son's entrepreneurial spirit and winds her way through the many guests that populate the foyer of her parents' home. She's relieved when the front double glass doors come into view.

The crisp night air hits her face like a slap as she walks outside, but she welcomes its wake up call. She's wearing a strapless dress that goes to just above her knees, gathered at the waist with fluttering fabric that looks like some ridiculous blue flamingo. Goosebumps break out across her skin and she smiles, proof she's still _herself_ in this over-the-top get up.

She cinches her purse strap higher up on her shoulder and spots the doorman standing off to the side of the entrance, cigarette in hand. The smoke curls into the night air, escaping up towards the sky.

"Spare a light?" She asks, rubbing her hands over her arms to ward away the goose bumps. Even in spring time, nights in Gotham are frigidly cold.

The doorman - Mikey - cracks a smile and shakes his head. He reaches into his pocket and holds out the open carton to her. She likes him, a kind older man in his forties with two kids in college. His wife passed a few years back from cancer, but she's never caught him with his head down.

"Bad habit, you know," he comments as she takes a cigarette and brings it to her lips. Her late night confidant holds out a lighter for her.

"Thanks," she says, and inhales deep - too deep, she's only a novice at smoking, after all - and coughs a few times.

"What's the story tonight?" Mikey asks her.

She takes another drag, shorter one this time, and holds the cigarette between two fingers at her side. She can feel the smoke rolling around in her lungs, burning her insides, but she ignores it and shrugs, eyes watching a couple sliding into a cab across the street.

"Didn't you hear? I should've been married two years ago after I finished school." She looks back at him, winking. "Guess that makes me an old hag."

Mikey lets out a bark of laughter, which in turn makes her laugh, too. His laugh is contagious, unhindered, so unlike her father's.

"If you're an old hag, what does that make _me?_" he jests.

"_Freezing!_" She exclaims, rubbing one arm with her free hand; the cold is getting to her. She quickly gives up the endeavor of trying to warm herself up, and stamps out her cigarette with her silver flat.

"Do you want to borrow a jacket? Dad'll never miss one," she offers him.

Her father _does_ have an endless wardrobe - one that almost rivals her mother's - and she knows Mikey would put one of his fur coats to much better use than her father. Most of the coats are ceremonial gifts from her mother, anyway, who is clueless as to what to buy her husband after so many years of empty marriage.

Mikey waves her off. "Don't worry 'bout me, kid. I'll be fine. You go back inside," he tells her, not unkindly. "Wouldn't do you any good, getting sick this time of year."

Falling ill may give her a welcome break from all the social engagements her parents have planned for her, but she doesn't say that.

Instead, she smiles and nods. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mikey," she tells him, and heads back to the fray.

Her exposed skin prickles all over the moment she re-enters the foyer, filled to the brim with warm bodies in evening wear, drinking to excess on her parents' dime. And to think, this party was supposed to be for her, and she doesn't even _drink_. Another detail her parents seem to have decided to ignore in lieu of their greater social endeavors.

She shakes herself, aware of the self-pity that's been creeping in to her thoughts all night. There's no use for that, however - she should be used to her family by now. It comes as no surprise that she has grown up into more of a social tool than a biological extension of her parents.

Making her way silently along the wall, she slips behind a rather rotund man in a three piece suit and bow tie when she spots her mother searching for someone - probably her. Soon, she's sliding up the staircase that curves around the foyer to the upper lobby where the elevators are, mother nowhere in sight. Mission accomplished, but it's a small victory in the grand scheme of things.

When she steps into the elevator, she notices the lift girl is oddly absent and reminds herself to ask Mikey about it next time she sees him. She presses the button for the top floor, letting her purse dangle from her finger tips, eyes unfocused as she gazes at the numbers above the door illuminate _1, 2, 3, 4. . ._

X X X

Blake takes one last swig of his donut shop coffee and places it in the cup holder between him and his partner. It's his third cup of their patrol and it's shaping up to be one of those nights where even an energy drink won't make a difference. Long night, and he's driving.

Normally, Ross is the one who drives when they're out canvassing the usual neighborhoods. He's more calm and collected than Blake, doesn't react at the drop of a pin in a chase or when a call comes through over the radio. But honestly. . .it's been so long since they've received a violent call, Blake volunteered tonight just to have something to _do_ with his hands.

Truthfully, he's antsy in the silence of it all.

When he first decided to become a cop - way back when the only thing he had to look forward to was a warm dinner with his orphaned brothers - and made it through the academy with notable achievement, he realized that even in the most notorious of precincts in the city. . .there wasn't a whole lot of action for him to tackle. Not since the Dent Act almost eight years ago, not since the Batman disappeared into the bowels of the world to never come out again like the creature he emulated in dress.

_Dent_.

Just the thought of the man makes Blake's blood begin to boil. His grip around the steering wheel tightens.

If the bastard wasn't already dead, Blake would very much like to have a talk with him, the kind of talk that involved fists instead of words. He knows Dent is the reason the Batman never came back, the reason the entire city - hell, the entire _world_ for that matter - loathes and rejects the one man that stood between them and utter annihilation from madmen.

The worst part is that he's probably the _only_ person who knows it, too, and he hates it.

No, worse - it makes him angry. _Really_ angry.

He feels like he should be doing something _more_ about it, helping _more_ in some way instead of just patrolling the streets on the look out for purse snatchers and teens buying pot on the corner from marginally dangerous drug dealers.

"Hey, Blake, you listening?" Ross' voice pulls him from his thoughts.

Blake shakes himself mentally, and glances over at his partner with a practiced smile.

"All good, man. What's up with Grace?" He asks, gleaning tidbits from what Ross has been telling him even while his mind was elsewhere.

Ross doesn't catch the fake smile - this time - and just sighs. "She's gone off the deep end with all this baby proofing bullshit," his partner tells him, exasperated. "No sharp corners, no open drawers, toilets, doors, cabinets. . .she says it's bad enough that I decided to bring a child in to this world - catch that? Like _I_ was the only one that had a hand in it - that I had better damn well make sure our boy is safe in his own house."

"It's a boy?" Blake asks, surprised. He hadn't known that.

Ross gives him a look that Blake can feel without looking at his partner. "Really? Out of all that, _that's_ what you pick out?"

Blake laughs, and it's a genuine gesture. Where his partner is practical and domesticated, Blake is temperamental and wild. That's not to say he's a stupid cop. Blake understands the value of thinking with a clear head, reacting to situations in a calm, logical manner - but at times, he just wants to take some of his perps _out_.

This is the part he doesn't tell his anger management counselor, who was assigned to him after he broke the jaw of a man he arrested in a domestic violence dispute.

No - wanting to bash in the face of every guy who abuses his kid? _Definitely_ something he's going to keep to himself.

"Don't worry, Ross," Blake assures his partner. "You can tell Grace I'll make sure your kid gets to grow up with his dad."

And Blake means it.

X X X

The elevator lets out a soft _ting!_ and she's glad to finally be away from all the hollow chatter and music. She walks down the hallway towards the main door to her parents' condo, rummaging around in her purse for the keys - and that's when she freezes.

The door is ajar, lock dangling a few inches down from where it should be, connected only by two thin metal cords.

"Well, that's not good," she mutters to herself.

She looks over her shoulder down the deserted hallway, and then back in her purse. Her cellphone is there, nestled next to her wallet. She knows what she should do: dash back downstairs, call the cops, wait with her mother while she anxiously bites at her French manicured nails. . .the thought makes her recoil, however. She's not sure why, but the idea of running just doesn't sit well with her.

Instead, she moves to grab the black can of mace in the side pocket of her purse. It crosses her mind that this is a terrible idea, but there's also a part of her that wants to catch whoever is breaking in to her parents' condo - wants to know what kind of guy has the guts to cross her father. It may be a foolish thought, but at least's it's _her_ thought, and she's going to act on it alone.

She grabs her phone quickly, brings up the keypad and enters '911' - just in case - and places the phone carefully back into her purse, screen side up.

With the mace in her left hand, she reaches to push back the door with her right, silently slips off her shoes and cautiously steps in.

The first thing she notices is darkness. The burglar must have killed all the lights (of course), because her parents always leave every light on and she's always turning them off.

In the dark, she walks cautiously around the table up against the wall where her parents always drop their keys, and past the doorway that leads to the living room. She can feel fear creep up her spine, but she bats it down and forces herself to focus only on the situation at hand, and not the consequences. Her thumb flicks off the safety switch on the mace, and she raises it to shoulder level as she continues to step barefoot along the marble floors towards the back of the condo.

Ambient light spills in through the floor to ceiling windows her parents insisted on when they moved in. The longer she explores uninterrupted, the faster her heart begins to beat inside her chest. A cold sweat's broken out across her forehead, and she can feel every nerve ending in her body tingling with anticipation and - fear, something she's struggling to keep in check.

"I wonder. . ." a smooth, feminine voice drawls from behind her.

She swerves around, mace at the ready, and sees the figure leaning up against the wall next to her father's Jackson Pollack painting. The whole upper half of her body is cast in shadows, long, lithe legs visible as one heeled foot tabs on the marble floor.

"Are you as stupid as you are pretty?" The woman asks her, sounding amused.

She feels her heart thud in her chest, and tightens her grip around the mace. Her eyes dart quickly to the purse at her shoulder, but when she looks back up, the woman is suddenly in front of her - faster than anything - and pins her to the window. One gloved hand swats away the mace and it clatters to the floor while the other hand goes to wrap around her throat.

Satisfied she isn't going anywhere, the woman asks, "What's your name, sweetheart?"

The hand around her throat isn't cutting off her airway, but the feeling isn't pleasant, either.

"Gwen," she gets out, taking shallow breaths to avoid adding more pressure on her airway.

From the light of the window, she can make out the woman's features fully now: black mask covering the top half of her face, half of her dark brown hair pinned back smoothly, the other half hanging loosely in front of her shoulders on either side. She's wearing all black - leather, she realizes, after a moment - and black boots with shining steel heels.

"_Gwen. . ._" the woman tries out her name, saying it slowly. She rolls her eyes and shakes her head. "Pretty name for a pretty girl in a pretty house," she declares quietly.

Gwen knows at once who the woman is, and the recognition must show in her eyes, because the cat suddenly smiles at her. It's a long, languorous smile that shows all her straight white teeth behind red lips.

"You want jewels," Gwen says. With the woman's fingers wrapped securely around her throat, she can feel her voice vibrate through her skin as she speaks. Her hands hang helplessly at her sides; she doesn't dare try to use them in her position. "Wall safe, second bedroom on the right. . .behind the Monet."

The cat tilts her head to one side, smile turning into a quirking gesture. "What're you doing, Gwen? Are you _helping_ me?"

"You're her, aren't you?" Gwen says, eyes briefly glancing down at the woman's leather attire and odd black headband. "The cat they're all talking about in the papers."

The woman straightens at that, smile disappearing. Her fingers tighten ever so slightly around Gwen's throat.

"What do you know about me?" She questions, nearly a sneer.

"Absolutely nothing," Gwen answers. She knows how truthful the media can be, how dangerous, how slanderous. But she also knows she'll say anything to please the woman who currently holds her life in her hands. What a stupid idea it was to enter unarmed.

"Take whatever you wish," she tells her. "I don't need it. God knows my family won't miss it." It rings true to her ears because it is the honest truth, whether or not she meant to tell this woman so much.

This elicits a laugh from the cat, and it catches Gwen off guard. It would almost be a pleasant noise, if not for the fact that she is so dangerous. The woman is taller than her, by six inches or so, and though she is lithe like her moniker implies, Gwen can also see she is strong. The masked thief could snap her in half if she pushes the wrong buttons.

"Why so willing, Gwen?" She drawls, her free hand going behind her back and drawing something forward to Gwen's throat that makes her the fear up her spine ignite into utter panic: the knife glitters in the soft, gold and orange light of the city as she gently presses it to just below Gwen's ear.

"Do I seem like a worthy recipient of your generosity?" The cat asks her slowly, dangerously.

_So many questions for someone who is in the position of total power_, Gwen thinks. The woman's eyes are cold and calculating, no doubt, but for whatever reason, Gwen doesn't see the malice her threats imply. She doesn't see evil.

All the same, Gwen asks quietly, "Are you gonna kill me?"

Her voice cracks as she says it and she hates that it does. If she's going to die, a death that will hopefully not include too much suffering if the woman slices near such a major artery - she doesn't want to sound like a coward before she bleeds out. She refuses to be cowardly. She supposes that's why she didn't run at first, when she saw the broken lock.

The cat studies her for a moment, eyes narrowing as the cool edge of the knife continues to press against Gwen's throat. . .yet, it hasn't drawn blood yet, she notes. After a moment, the woman steps back, and tucks the knife away again.

"No," she says, suddenly nonchalant. She wipes her hands off as if to rid herself of some invisible dust.

Gwen takes a breath she's been holding for a while and just stands there, too shocked to realize the sudden shift in her demeanor and meets the woman's gaze, masking her face of any trace of fear.

The lithe burglar in leather crosses her arms, and looks Gwen up and down, ridiculous frills and all.

"You have empathy," the cat tells her. Her voice sounds almost plaintive, but Gwen has to be imagining it. "I won't kill you. Your bleeding heart will be the death of you soon enough in a city like this."

The words surprise Gwen, as the cat takes a few quick steps back. Why let her go, let her be a witness?

The cat tilts her head to the side again as she continues to inch backwards towards the front door, and that dangerous smile spreads across her features again.

"Toughen up, girl. Storm's coming. You won't survive it caring about everybody else before yourself," she warns, and it almost sounds like wisdom.

Gwen opens her mouth to respond, but the sudden sound of gunshots resounding up through the building stop her. She feels her heart drop - the party, all the guests, the children in attendance. . .Gwen shoots an accusing look at her intruder, but the cat only sighs dramatically.

"Not my work, but I'm afraid that's my cue," she tells Gwen, and then disappears down the dark hallway of the condo.


	2. The only time you can be courageous

I want to say thank you to those who took the time to review, it's definitely inspiring to read such encouraging words. Also, I think I may need a beta reader, would anybody be interested? Message me if you are. I need an impartial opinion on this.

Updates for this story will probably be every week (or less), but no longer than that. I am so inspired with this and can't wait to keep writing. . .hopefully you'll keep reading and enjoying, too! Alright, on with the action.

X X X

Bravura

"_The only time you can be courageous is when you're afraid."_

X X X

Ross is in the middle of checking the plates of the car in front of them when the call comes over the computer terminal hooked up to the dashboard.

"Units, we have a confirmed two-four-six at upstate east residence, code two. Respond."

Blake's reaching for the radio hooked next to the terminal even before the woman's voice is finished speaking. This is the first violent call they've received in months - Code 246, shooting at a residence. Blake's never happy to hear that people are being killed, that children abused by the ones who are supposed to protect them. . .it tears him in half to think of the random acts of violence that still happen in the city. But if he gets there in time tonight, he'll make sure the perp doesn't get away, and save anybody he can.

Blake holds down the speak button on the radio and replies, "Dispatch, this is one-echo-two-four responding, please advise address."

"One Echo Two Four, address is eleven-thirty-three east seventy-fifth street. What is your ETA?" The voice at dispatch crackles over the radio.

Blake exchanges a quick glance with his partner. While Blake grew up near old town and knows those neighborhoods like the back of his hand, Ross is more familiar with east side of the city.

"Three minutes, take the next right," Ross tells his partner without needing the question voiced.

Blake flashes a rare smirk, "Ten-four, dispatch. ETA in three."

He places the radio back on the stand and slams his boot on the gas pedal, muscle memory taking over as he maneuvers around the slow-moving sedan in front of them and flies through a newly-turned green light.

Like an old friend, Blake feels the adrenaline creep up from his lower back to his neck as it courses through him with growing intensity. He cuts in between a few cars and takes the next right. Tonight, he gets to _do_ his job and make a difference in Gotham. While peaceful times look good for the media and getting the mayor re-elected, it doesn't make Blake feel like he's earning the right to wear his badge and carry a firearm.

Despite the Dent Act nearly eradicating organized crime in the city, he can't seem to shake the feeling like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop - the thought keeps him awake most nights during the few hours he _should_ be sleeping, but instead he ends up to listen to his police scanner or browse the web for the latest on crime across the country.

"Hang a left here," Ross points, breaking up his thoughts.

Blake doesn't bother with his turning signals as he changes lanes and cuts off an SUV in the far left lane. The signal at the upcoming intersection changes from green to yellow. A glance down at his odometer tells him he's breaking forty-five miles per hour, on a busy city street with multiple cars on the road.

"Blake. . ." Ross warns, nervous. His partner knows him too well, for better or for worse.

"Hang on, man," Blake tells him, pressing on the gas a little more and placing his hands at the upper right section of the steering wheel, preparing to turn. "We're gonna keep that promise to Grace."

X X X

Gwen's feet carry her out of her parents' condo and down the hallway as fast as they can. Her mind is racing with the horrible possibilities those gunshots could mean - a robbery, a massacre, a kidnapping. . .the guests in attendance at the party include some of Gotham's most influential: socialites, brokers, lawyers, CEOs. A lot of powerful people gathered neatly in once place, the majority of whom are utterly incapable of defending themselves in their current inebriated state.

_And the kids_, Gwen thinks, frantic.

She runs to the emergency stairwell at the end of the hall, nearly slams into the door and takes the stairs two at a time. The smell of smoke and metal mixes in her senses; it almost makes her lose her dinner with how scared she feels at the moment. She jumps onto the first landing, and grabs onto the handrail to anchor herself as she swings onto the next flight of stairs.

The sound of more gunshots echo up to Gwen, and she flinches.

_Oh god, oh god, oh god. . ._ She thinks of her mother with a champagne glass in her hand, her father with his cigar, the children playing hide and go seek in a sea of tuxedos and cocktail dresses. Against the odds she knows aren't in her favor, she clings to the hope that they'll look exactly the same when she sees them next.

_If_ she sees them.

Belatedly, she remembers the cell phone in her purse. She's halfway down the third flight of stairs when she grabs the phone from her purse, not missing a beat in her sprint down the stairs. '911' is already on the keypad from when she'd entered it earlier. She hits 'send,' and tries to slow her ragged breathing as she hits the landing of the second floor.

The sound of more gunshots travel up the stairs, shaking Gwen to her core. She can hear screaming now that she's closer to the chaos.

"Nine-one-one, what's your emergency?" A calm, male voice comes over the line.

"Somebody's shooting inside my building," Gwen tells him in a rush, nearly breathless. "There's a huge party and there's kids-"

"Please, miss, stay calm. What's your location? Can you identify the shooters?" The man asks her.

Gwen stops halfway down the last set of the stairs, and closes her eyes, taking a few deep breaths. She won't do anyone any good if she can't answer these questions.

"Eleven thirty-three. . .east seventy-fifth," she replies shakily. "I can't see the shooters. The shots came from the first floor. There's a party in the foyer."

"We've received several calls to this location. A unit is already en route, with back up on the way," the man tells her. "Are you somewhere safe?"

Another scream cuts through the cement stairwell, ripping her attention away from the call taker. With one hand still holding the phone up to her ear, she takes the last few stairs to the first floor, and presses open the door a few inches. She can feel her hand shaking as it bears the weight of the door.

"Miss? Are you still there? Please answer. Units are en route, stay where you are, stay out of sight. Help will be there soon," he says in her ear.

She ignores him as a sliver of the foyer comes in to view. She sees a woman's body laying haphazardly up against the wall by the farthest elevator. Blood is seeping out of her coral colored dress, head rolled to one side, eyes unseeing.

"Oh _god. . ._" she whispers, her voice hoarse. She squeezes her eyes shut as she feels her heart wrench inside her chest. A sob works its way up her throat, but she forces herself to stay quiet. She's never seen a dead body before and it's something she will never forget.

"Miss, are you still there? Stay out of sight-"

A figure comes into Gwen's narrow view of the space, tall and imposing: the large, lumbering form of a man wearing a black ski mask, gun in one hand, knife in the other. Unlike the cat earlier who held a slender, delicate knife to her ear, the knife the man is carrying is at least a foot long and has a serrated, rusted edge.

And, unlike the cat, Gwen sees true malice in the man's dark eyes.

X X X

One minute out from the scene, Blake realizes he's gripping the wheel so hard that his knuckles are turning white from lack of blood flow. Ross notices, too, and they exchange a look, but neither says anything. Blake takes a few deep breaths as he turns on to 75th East, his heart beating so fast now he can hear his pulse in his ears.

_One touchdown, two touchdown, three touchdown. . ._he counts to himself, a technique recommended to him by his anger management counselor. When Blake was a kid, he'd loved to play flag football with the other boys at the orphanage. He was always the smallest but also the fastest, and he had quick hands. Scoring touchdown after touchdown was one of the few things that gave him joy after coming to the orphanage.

"We're coming up on it," Ross says, eyes scanning both sides of the street. It's mostly deserted of cars, but the closer they approach, they can see the dozens of people running in all directions out of the entrance and onto the sidewalk.

In seconds, Blake pulls to the side, cuts the ignition and gets out of the car. He draws his gun, and glances at Ross as he does the same. The two jog silently along the facing of the buildings towards the few straggling people dashing from the address in question. One catches his eye - a large, older gentleman wearing a ridiculous blue bow tie - and Blake flicks his chin over towards the street, urging the man to keep running.

The man pauses for a moment, eyes darting this way and that like a caged animal. He holds up two shaking fingers, motions towards the entrance and then continues running down the street.

_Two armed men, at least_, Blake realizes._ Possibly more._

Their surroundings become eerily quiet as he leans up against the edge of the double glass doors, Ross moving to cover the other side of the entrance. To his horror, Blake counts at least seven bodies in the foyer - some old, some young. When he spots the body of a little girl, maybe seven years old, on the floor, he almost loses it.

_Goddam assholes_, he grits. Without another thought, he shoves open the double door and leads with his gun, assessing all possible doorways, exits and vantage points for the shooters.

The metallic smell of blood collides with his senses, making his insides roil with disgust. As much as he's been around the smell of blood, he can barely tolerate it.

Among the shambles of the foyer are overturned banquet tables, discarded and abandoned purses and handkerchiefs, champagne puddles along the marble floors. . .and bodies. Blake and Ross immediately check their vitals; a man and woman are draped at the bottom of one staircase, another elderly woman off to the left near an alcove, two more men by the ornate, wood center table. . .blood stains all their clothes like spray on a few and ugly paint slashes on others. It drips down their evening attire, marring the perfect white floors. The little girl Blake spotted earlier is lying by one of the tables, her arm cast across her chest, as if she was thrown to the side after being shot.

Everyone's dead, ambushed like animals. Blake's thoughts immediately turn to a dark shade of crimson, so dark they're nearly black.

"_John_." He hears his partner's voice beside him. He has a hand on his shoulder, and squeezes gently. "We need to find the shooters, clear the building."

Grudgingly, Blake nods, takes a deep breath then returns his attention to pursuit. They each take on of the staircases that line the foyer on either side, guns lowered but fingers on the trigger guard, ready to fire.

_Honor the dead tomorrow, protect the living today_, Blake tells himself. That's all he can do, all he has the power to do, though he has the _ability_ to do much more.

"Where the hell is back up?" Ross mutters as they reach the top of the stairs and eye the elevators warily. They'll be trapped like rats if they take that route. Blake spots an emergency stairwell off to the right, but that's no better than the elevators - if not worse, the shooters can hit them from above.

_Too many if's_, Blake thinks. He makes the decision, knowing time wasted can mean the difference between another victim or survivor. As he's about to make for the stairwell, he notices the illuminated number pad above each elevator. All of them are stationary except for one that's moving up from four, five, six, seven. . .

"Penthouse, that's their target," he realizes, the top floor. He glances at Ross. "It's where I would go."

"No exit on the top floor," Ross reminds him grimly. He lowers his gun slightly, heading towards the stairwell anyway. Blake follows as his partner shoves open the door, and leads with his gun, clearing the immediate landing and stairs just above them.

"We're cornered if they double back," Ross states reluctantly.

Blake agrees, but doesn't say the words aloud as they take the stairs as fast as they can. Ross is right on his heels, breathing a little heavier than Blake, whose legs are burning with the effort of climbing. By the third flight, he can feel the sweat start to form on his forehead, tightness in his quads and calves. The pain in his muscles quick turns to discomfort, but soon, he feels very little as the adrenaline takes full control of his limbs.

He's running over the scenarios in his head - two shooters, one look out, one grabbing; hostage situation; chase on foot; shooters gone, people dead, damage done. The possibilities skitter across his mind in fragments, and he thinks of how to best handle each one - and all variations thereof.

They approach the ninth and final flight of stairs, Blake still in the lead. He shoves open the door, gun at the ready and his eyes take in the scene immediately:

Two figures - a male suspect, ski masked and imposing at well over six feet, and the other his hostage, a young woman. She's slight compared to the masked shooter who has his arm cinched under her chin, trapping her against him with a gun to her head. Her hands are clawing and grabbing at the arm that's pinning her, but she pauses when she sees them, and Blake recognizes the unmistakable fear in her eyes, and the realization that she's no longer a possible kidnap victim, but a hostage. Their arrival complicates everything.

"Police, put the gun down," he hears Ross order from beside him.

The shooter doesn't react immediately to the command. Instead, he slowly begins to back up towards the open door at the end of the hallway. Blake counts three closed doors on each side of the hallway, and realizes the second shooter could be waiting behind any one of them, ready to take advantage of their turned backs.

"You know the drill, always the same drill," the shooter speaks in a rough voice, and Blake isn't quite certain who he's talking to - them or the girl.

The masked man presses the gun harder against the girl's head, but the only sign she gives of the increase in pressure is a slight tightening of her jaw. His anger flares up again; he can't save the people downstairs, but the girl in front of him - he can save _her_, and if the shooter dies in the exchange, than oh fucking well. . .

Blake and Ross match each step the shooter takes back, the girl forced to follow her captor backwards on unsteady feet. Bare feet, Blake realizes just then. He wonders why she's shoeless, and hopes it isn't the worst thing he's thinking.

"Hostages complicate situations like this," Blake decides to tell the man. His voice is calm, despite his rapid heartbeat. "Can't imagine a judge is gonna look kindly on you taking this young woman here against her will."

Blake's eyes flick again to the girl in question - five foot four, slender build, long, curled auburn hair. He figures she was a guest at the party - but why she ran upstairs instead of out the front doors puzzles him.

"You think this is going to end in one of _your_ courtrooms?" The man scoffs. He laughs, the sound deep and gravelly.

To Blake's discomfort, the shooter leans in towards the girl, rubbing the side of his face along her hair the way a cat slinks along the hand that pets it. She visibly shudders, a sound of disgust escaping through her clenched teeth. Her eyes, however, remain resolutely open and focused on Blake and Ross.

"Where do you see this ending?" Ross asks, catering to the suspect.

He's trying to buy time, to draw out the other shooter - Blake knows this is standard procedure, but there's something about this situation that he doesn't like. First a robbery, now a kidnapping? It doesn't add up.

"It hasn't even started yet," the shooter replies darkly.

Everything happens at once then: the masked man unhooks the girl from his grasp and shoves her forward to the floor; she catches herself with her hands with an _umph!_ Both Ross and Blake have their guns trained on the man as he takes a few quick steps back, mouth curving into a sickening smile that reveals yellowed, crooked teeth behind his ski mask.

And then puts the gun under his chin and pulls the trigger.

The sound reverberates through the hallway, the girl lets out a startled cry; before Blake and Ross have time to react, and the shooter's large, lumbering form collapses first to his knees, then forward to the ground with a sickening thud. In the silence that follows, all Blake can hear is the distant sound of sirens and his own racing heartbeat. Blood is spattered across the ceiling and carpeting like morbidly abstract art, a stark contrast to the soft earth tones and fluer de lis that line the hallway.

"Jesus Christ," Ross mutters beside him, slowly lowering his gun and holstering the weapon. He looks at Blake, and just shakes his head. After a beat, he pulls the radio from the clip on his vest and says, "Ninth floor, one suspect down, whereabouts unknown of other possible shooters."

"Second shooter's long gone by now," Blake tells his partner, who nods in agreement.

He holsters his weapon, and glances at the girl then, who's moved to sit up against the wall with her head in her hands, elbows resting on her knees. While Ross goes to clear the other rooms in the hallway, Blake walks over and kneels in front of her.

"Hey," he says quietly, reaching out to place a hand on her shoulder.

To her credit, she doesn't flinch. When she looks up at him, he can see the outline of the barrel of the gun against the pale skin of her temple, and the lingering shock in her eyes. The red mark of the gun upsets him - what had she even been _doing_ on the top floor of the building? The foyer was clearly the point of entrance for the shooters - or shooter, Blake's not certain. He figures she must've already been there on the top floor when the shooters fled upstairs.

Her brown eyes begin to glass over and, for a second, Blake thinks she's going to cry. He knows it's common for hostage victims to break down once the shock of their situation wears off, even if they held it together while a gun was at their head. He prepares himself for the hysterics, runs over the comforting things he should say to her, but instead she surprises him.

"What happens now?" She asks softly, as if almost to herself.

He tilts his head to the side, and tries to emulate his most calm and reassuring voice. "We get you patched up, and figure out what exactly happened here," he replies slowly, quietly.

Blake glances over his shoulder as Ross walks by them, radioing for medical assistance and the coroner unit to officially pronounce the bodies dead. When he turns his attention back to the girl, her gaze has drifted to some unknown spot beyond him. He takes a moment to study her; she must be in her early twenties, but with her hair styled in curls and pins for the formerly jovial party and wearing a cocktail dress he's only seen on billboards, she looks much, much younger. Her long hair is tangled and mussed, make up smudged and smeared.

But - she's alive and, underneath all the mess, she looks like a sweet girl, almost innocent. It's always a bonus when he saves somebody who's not a scumbag, not always something get to choose in his line of work.

"Was anybody else hurt?" She asks suddenly, dragging him from his thoughts.

_A hostage with a heart_, Blake sighs, breaking eye contact for a moment. She will undoubtedly break down in his arms if he tells her everything he saw in the foyer, so he decides not to at the moment.

His practice in the mirror fails him, though, because some latent anger at seeing the bodies - the little girl, her blonde hair strewn across her face - lying dead must pass over his face, and the girl in front of him catches it, realizes what that dark look of his means. Guess he needs to practice more often.

"Shit," she whispers, hugging her arms to herself.

Other cops, detectives and the coroner's unit are filing into the narrow hallway now. It's getting too crowded for Blake's liking, and he needs to get the girl to the hospital for clearance anyway.

"Come on," he says gently, holding out his hand to her.

She looks at him for a moment, then takes his hand. Blake can't help but notice that her fingers feel ice cold, nails bitten down to the quick. As he slowly pulls her to her feet, she sways slightly in an effort to catch her balance. She looks at him quickly and then away again, and Blake gets it.

_Don't like people seeing you weak_, he realizes. Never thought he'd have something in common with a hostage victim.

When he sees her hands shaking at her sides, he slips off his jacket. "Here," he says, holding it out for her to put on.

She looks confused for a moment, but slips her bare arms through the sleeves and pulls the jacket closed over her strapless dress.

"Thank you," she says, looking up at him and then to the multitude of commotion that is quickly developing around them.

"Let's go," he tells her before her nervousness gets the better of her. "I'll take you to the hospital and we'll go from there."

"I should call my parents," she says, almost numbly, as they're walking to the elevator. "They're going to wonder where I am. They were down there when it started."

"We'll find them and let them know you're okay," Blake tells her, even though he knows it could very well be a lie. A few of the bodies he saw in the foyer are old enough to be the girl's parents.

Blake tries to think of something more comforting to say, but comes up short. He's naturally a very empathetic person - it's almost his undoing, and always the reason he has trouble with his anger. But, when it comes down to _voicing_ his feelings to victims, he stumbles. He'd rather show them he cared through his actions instead words. Anybody can talk out of their ass, but very few will take a bullet for a stranger, not knowing if that stranger is a good or bad person, or somewhere in between.

"Right," she says quietly. "I guess that's what you're supposed to tell the victim, right?" She looks up at him, just as the elevator doors slide open, ready to escort them down to the first floor.

Blake doesn't know what to say, only follows her into the elevator. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, and decides not to leave the girl until the glazed look of fear leaves her eyes.


	3. I will tell you a story

This chapter may seem slow compared to the first two, but character development is important when it comes to OC's, and I hope you'll like how things unfold here; gotta have the quiet moments amidst all the drama.

Thanks again to all who reviewed, I really appreciate that you took the time. Still can't believe over one hundred people are following this! Alright, on with the chapter.

X X X

Bravura

"_I will tell you a story every night before bed."_

X X X

When Gwen thinks back on her childhood, her earliest memory is of Mary, and learning how to skip down the marble hallway of her parents' home. Most all of the children Gwen played with as a child had nannies, and she was no exception. Her parents had found Mary through a friend of a friend, a quiet woman in her forties who had no children of her own - no family at all, that she spoke of - and came highly recommended when dealing with "precocious toddlers."

Gwen never thought of herself as precocious, though in hindsight, she supposes she was. Whenever her parents hosted parties at their home, the one they lived in before moving to the top floor condo on 75th East, she had always refused to wear her pre-chosen outfit for more than an hour. One time, just before her sixth birthday, she had marched right down the stairs in a polka dotted swimsuit and red rain galoshes; it was mid spring.

This was when Mary took her by the hand, a smile crinkling the sides of her light blue eyes, and led Gwen back upstairs. They left behind the sounds of the party and her mother's disapproval and retreated to the upstairs floor, Gwen's sanctuary. She and Mary would spend the rest of the evening reading stories from Gwen's bookshelf, a quite impressive collection, and Gwen would ask her all the questions that her mother never had time for.

"Why didn't the princess ever escape the tower on her own?" Gwen asked one time, tilting her head up at her nanny. The two sat on Gwen's twin bed, Gwen in Mary's lap, her caregiver's gentle arms wrapped around her. The pages of the storybook lay splayed out before them.

"She needed help," Mary told her. "Even the heroines of the story need a little help sometimes."

Mary's voice was always quiet, soft and ever patient, and it always made Gwen smile. It was nothing like her mother's voice, or her father's.

"What's a heroine?" Gwen said, her nose crinkling in confusion.

"She's the main character in the story," Mary replied, and gave Gwen a little squeeze with her arms. "The one you follow and go on the adventure with. You learn to love her, cry with her, root for her. She's the one who fights for her happily ever after."

Gwen had thought about this for a moment. Glancing back down at the illustration on the pages, her young mind tried to work out what her nanny was telling her. One thing didn't add up.

"She _always _gets her happily ever after?" Gwen finally asked, skeptical. She wasn't skeptical of much at that age, but when she sensed something fishy, she didn't hold back in voicing her doubts.

Something had passed over Mary's face then, and, young as she was, Gwen hadn't understood - the fleeting sadness - but it was gone in the next moment, and her nanny nodded, always with that warm, reassuring smile.

"If she fights, and doesn't give up," Mary whispered to her, a treasured secret, "She always will." And Gwen never questioned her on the matter again.

When the elevator doors open to reveal the chaos of the first floor, Gwen thinks for a moment on how ugly the ending to this night is. She has to force herself not to retch right on the spot; the stench of blood and chemicals and _bodies_ is so overwhelming. The air conditioning hadn't been running during the party, and with all the drinking and dancing going on, the temperature had risen considerably early on in the night.

Now, this unfortunate facts seems to exacerbate all the smells in the foyer; black tarps are draped delicately over still, lifeless forms. She can picture the possible faces of those beneath and it makes her heart sink all the way down to her stomach. A camera flash goes off as a forensics investigator documents every detail of the scene before him; the destroyed tables, chairs - even a chandelier that lay shattered at the center of the crowded foyer. It's crowded for a very different reason now.

"This way," she hears the cop say next to her, the one whose jacket she's wearing.

He presses his hand to her back to gently urge her on, and she doesn't fight it. He leads her towards the entrance, staying on her left and blocking most of her view of the damage. When she turns to follow the natural curve of the wall, however, she catches sight of a tarp half the size of all the others on the floor, and freezes.

There were four children at the party - it had been Gwen's job to meet and greet all of them as their parents were whisked away to some important engagement or other - and Gwen had been the one to encourage them to play hide and seek amongst the guests. She whispered to them of the secret stairwell behind the potted amber tree and the hidden alcoves tucked away off to the side. Nobody would find them there. . .

But now, the body of one of them lies there on the floor.

Gwen takes a step back and cuts behind the young cop before he can react, quickly making her way to the small, black tarp. It might be Casey, the petite five-year-old with bouncing brunette curls, or even Gianna, with her pale skin, freckles, and even paler blonde hair. She recalls the faces of the other two children - Thomas and Jackson - and her already sunken heart drops so low she's not sure if she'll be able to recover it tonight.

She kneels, and her fingers reach out to touch the outline of a small nose, curved chin, but a hand on hers stops her.

"You don't need to do this to yourself," the cop says quietly from beside her, his voice suddenly tight.

Something she hears in it makes her look at him. He's squatting beside her, a dark look in his eyes despite his stoic expression. She can see the buried hatred for what's been done, and feels her own anger bubble up within. Where _were_ the kid's parents when the shooters broke in? Where the _hell_ are they now? Her anger, however, slowly gives way to guilt as she looks back down at the tarp. The guilt is a creeping, painful ebb in the center of her chest.

Why hadn't _she_ been there?

"What's your name?" the cop asks quietly.

"Gwen Gallo," she answers, slightly jarred by the question.

He nods, and takes his hand from hers. She didn't realize he was still holding it.

"I'm John," he tells her, "John Blake." He pauses for a moment, then stands. His gaze drops back down to the body, but flickers up again to her and then to the entrance outside where she can see flashing blue and red lights, the large, dark crimson form of a fire truck.

She doesn't see the anger in his eyes anymore, but she's sure it's still there. Fury like that doesn't just fade.

"There's nothing more we can do here, Gwen," Blake tells her finally, and she hears the note of sadness that's crept into his voice. It must be on purpose; he sounded so calm and level-headed on the top floor just moments earlier. "But you can help these people by telling me everything that happened tonight, and maybe that'll lead somewhere we can follow. And we can help everybody here who didn't make it."

The words make sense when he says them to her, and for some reason, they make Gwen want to trust him immediately. She hasn't been around many cops in her lifetime - those aren't the kind of men that her father deals with - but this cop, John Blake, his words don't seem rehearsed or forced, and the anger. . .well, that certainly wasn't an act.

So she pulls his jacket around her shoulders tighter, and tells him, "Okay."

X X X

They walk out together in the bitingly cold Gotham air, and Blake actually shivers from it. He's uncertain if it's because of what he just saw, or because the temperature is approaching freezing. He's leading the girl - Gwen - to a vacant ambulance off to the right, away from the gathering crowd, when a woman's voice cuts through the air.

"Please, that's my _daughter!_ Right _there_, you have to let me through. _Gwen!_"

Blake's head snaps in the direction of the voice, and the girl beside him stops in her tracks the same time he does. He sees a woman just behind the barricade, struggling to move past the cop blocking her way; tall and slender in a glittering silver dress, auburn hair piled in a mess on the side of her head. He glances back at Gwen for confirmation, and she silently nods, hugging his jacket tighter around her still.

"We can meet her at the hospital, if you'd like," Blake offers quietly.

Gwen looks surprised at that, but shakes her head. "Can I get a minute?"

"Of course," Blake replies, motioning for her to go to the barricade. They have all night to straighten out what happened and, quite frankly, he doesn't want to have to deal with a frantic mother berating him for keeping her from her daughter later on. His jacket is full enough of complaints already.

Blake watches as his barefoot hostage victim is enveloped in a bone crushing hug by her mother. Words are exchanged, and Blake sees the woman's look of relief turn to annoyance. Gwen's shoulders stiffen from underneath his jacket, and he wonders if she's finally going to collapse from all the stress of the night, or lash out in anger at her mother. Those seem to be the two roads hostage victims take, despair or anger. Victim or avenger.

He realizes that she's emulating neither reaction - at least, right now she's not. The girl honestly seems more concerned with the dead bodies inside the building than her own well-being, and now she's pacifying her mother from going in to hysterics.

_Shouldn't have left your daughter behind_, Blake thinks, and he knows a glare is slipping through his carefully schooled features in the woman's direction. The commotion around him - the cops, flashing lights, the witnesses gathering on the street - all of it fades as he considers the fact that two children, one grown and one who won't ever grow again, were very likely left behind by their parents to masked gunmen tonight.

The very thought of it makes him want to snatch any kid from parents who wouldn't do absolutely _any_thing to protect the child they brought in to this world. If he ever has kids. . .he'll lay down his life before letting them be gunned down. Parents shouldn't have to bury their children, of that he's certain.

"Hey, you okay?"

Her voice snaps Blake from his thoughts, and he realizes Gwen's standing there, studying him, head tilted to the side.

Blake shrugs automatically, slipping back into the practiced calm he's become so good at over the years.

"You shouldn't be the one having to ask me that," he tells her, walking towards the ambulance.

She falls in step beside him. "I shouldn't," she returns, and he sees her face soften, "but I am."

Blake's mouth quirks, and he uses the excuse of helping her into the ambulance to avoid answering her question. The paramedic nods to both of them, and begins down a checklist of questions directed towards Gwen as Blake closes the ambulance doors and sits down on the bench across from them.

X X X

"Blake, we've cleared the building. Heading to the precinct now," a voice comes over the radio clipped to the cop's vest.

The paramedic is applying butterfly stitches to Gwen's knee for a cut she doesn't even remember sustaining, and she forces herself to focus on Blake's face in an attempt to distract herself from the stinging pain.

"On my way to the hospital with the girl, report to the precinct after she's cleared," Blake replies into the radio. "Mother's been notified," he says after a beat.

"Ten-four. What about the dad?" The male voice on the other end questions.

Gwen turns away at that. Her father was nowhere in sight when she walked out of their building, scared and freezing, wearing a police officer's jacket. He's never been the nurturing type, but Gwen is his only daughter and heir to the shadowed business he has built from nothing. If anything, he needs her to carry on the family trade; the idea repulses her.

"All set," the paramedic tells her, leaning back and packing up his supplies. He moves to the front of the ambulance and takes the passenger seat, leaving Gwen and Blake alone in the back. They sit there, unsure for a moment, until Blake breaks the silence.

"I should've gotten you some shoes," he says, out of nowhere.

Gwen's confused for a second, but then glances down. Sure enough, she _is_ barefoot. She remembers now that she'd taken off her shoes earlier, when she first went up to the ninth floor, and ran into the cat burglar. . .she curls her toes underneath her feet, and shakes her head.

"I'm sure that's the least of your worries right now," she tells him, taking a deep, cleansing breath. The inside of the ambulance smells like metal and cleaning supplies, crisp and sterile. Nothing like the foyer of her parents' building.

Blake tilts his head to the side, glances towards the paramedics up front, before his eyes are back on her.

"That's gotta be a first," he tells her, and she swears she senses the irony in his tone. "A victim worrying about _me_."

Gwen immediately tenses up at the term 'victim,' and breaks eye contact with him. She clasps her hands underneath her knees and leans forward slightly. She can feel the edges of his jacket brush up against her bare calves, and notes the sounds of traffic rushing by just outside the confines of the ambulance.

When she looks back up at him, his expression is unreadable. She wonders if she's evoked the anger she saw before, but his look softens as he flicks his chin towards the stitched cut on her knee.

"Where'd you get that?" He asks, and his tone is noticeably warmer. It throws her, changing how his voice sounds so quickly, shifting the emotions around like water over river rock. "Don't think it was from the hallway. . ." he trails off, as if thinking aloud.

Gwen debates for a moment whether or not to tell him the truth. She considers how much danger it'll put her in with the wrong people, if it'll lead to more questions which could involve her father, and then suddenly she stops herself.

She looks up to realize Blake is studying every emotion that's no doubt passing over her face, and feels the heat rise to her face, ashamed. There's a little boy or girl lying dead on the foyer floor, and she's wondering whether or not she should tell the truth.

Eyes still on Blake, Gwen tries to fight the nerves that are tangling themselves in the pit of her stomach. She considers the possibility that it isn't just the situation making her nervous, that the actual cop sitting across from her has something to do with it, but she quickly dismisses the thought.

"The cat," Gwen finally tells him. "Did you know she wears steel-studded heels?"

His stoic mask slips for just a second, and she can see the genuine surprise on his features. Eyebrows knit in confusion, Blake shakes his head. "And how would you know that?" He inquires.

"Because I interrupted her," Gwen replies. She feels the nerves begin to settle in her stomach, and sits back.. "Earlier, before the. . .shooting. She must have nicked me when she-" Gwen stops, her hand unconsciously going to her neck, just below her ear.

She sees the realization dawn on his face. "Knife?" He confirms quietly.

"How'd you know?" Gwen drops her hand to her side, suddenly self-conscious of the act.

She hears chatter come from the front of the ambulance, and realizes they're pulling into one of the parking bays of Gotham General. The ambulance comes to a halt, and Blake's up before he can answer her question. He opens the ambulance doors and steps out into the night air, turning back around to hold his hand out for Gwen to take. She's curious to know if his mother taught him this, like Mary taught her how to be everything her parents refused to be.

There's a hint of a smile in his face as he replies, "Call it a hunch."

Gwen takes his hand and doesn't break eye contact as she steps down and out of the ambulance. Before she can register the nerves in her stomach again, Blake pulls his hand from hers and they walk towards the entrance, ambulance zooming off to some other emergency-ridden neighborhood of Gotham.

It's then that she takes note of the faint lines on his forehead, and the square angle of his jaw. Dark brown eyes, slightly arched eyebrows. It seems ridiculous that the few required art classes she attended in college are resurfacing in her mind now, but she can't help but wonder if Blake always looks so somber. He can't be much older than her, and while she isn't ignorant to the suffering of many in Gotham, he seems to be carrying more than his fair share of it all on his shoulders.

As they walk through the automatic sliding doors of the hospital, she catches the quick flash of a smirk out of the corner of her eye.

"Known me less than an hour, and already you're trying to figure out what's wrong with me," he remarks, a subtle note of humor in his voice.

As horrible as the night has been, Gwen allows herself to smile, but keeps her eyes on the floor as she follows Blake to reception, and then down the winding white halls to their assigned room.

"You're doing the same, aren't you?" She returns as they approach Exam 3.

Blake presses down on the handle to the room, and pushes the door open against his back. The smirk is gone, but she can still see it in his eyes as he watches her walk in to the room and take a seat on the exam bed.

"Part of the job," he replies, almost mechanically.

Nothing he's said all night has so sounded automatic like that. The only reason - at least, she _hopes_ the only reason - she has been so honest with him is because of how honest he seems to be in return. It's a little less difficult, less daunting, to give a piece of yourself when the other person is doing the same.

Gwen looks at Blake as he settles into a chair in the corner of the exam room. She catches his eye and shakes her head once, a slight gesture.

_I don't buy it_, she thinks and, for a second, she sees uncertainty flash across his face, and she thinks of Mary.

Even the hero needs a little help sometimes.


	4. Surround yourself with good people

For those of you who have been waiting for some Bruce and Selina interaction, you get your wish here! This may make the story slightly AU because of it, but I'd like to imagine the pearl scene in the movie was not their first meeting.

Please forgive any typos - I'm posting this late tonight so I wouldn't have to wait til the weekend. I'll go back and edit before I update again. That said, enjoy.

X X X

Bravura

"_Surround yourself with good people, and good things will follow."_

X X X

"Alright, Ms. Gallo," Ross says, rubbing a hand over his tired face. "Let's recap one more time, and then you can go home, I promise."

Gwen has been sitting across from them for the last two and a half hours; she answers every question with surprising patience, with exhaustion tinging only some of her responses. Of course, the events of the night can be related in minutes, but Blake and Ross need to be sure that she has gleaned every possible detail from her memory, starting from when the guests began arriving at the party up until when he and Ross showed up on the ninth floor hallway.

Blake has remained quiet for most of the interview, sitting back and allowing Ross to ask the questions instead. It's crossed his mind that she may be a suspect, but that's only because his training tells him to think this way. At the hospital, the doctor collected skin scrapings from underneath her nails and combed through her hair for particulates - a process which took longer than most, the doctor noted - because of the length and tangled state of her hair.

"I'm sure she won't make a habit of getting roughed up by gunmen," Blake had muttered under his breath.

The doctor wisely hadn't said anything further on the matter. After, Blake had been asked to leave the room while a nurse bagged Gwen's clothes and gave the girl a spare set of nursing scrubs to wear.

"When you arrived on the top floor," Ross says, glancing down at his notes. "You encountered the as yet unidentified 'cat burglar,' correct?"

"That's right," Gwen confirms. She runs a hand through her hair, and stops when she hits a tangle, wincing. "She was already in my parents' condo. I was in the hall when she sneaked up on me."

"And she threatened you?" Ross inquires.

Blake sees her pause for a moment, her head tilting to the side, eyes focused on the metal table before her.

"In a fashion," Gwen answers, cautiously. "She held a knife to my throat, but I don't think she ever intended to use it."

This commentary is new; Blake finds himself leaning forward in his chair, and exchanges a glance with Ross. "What do you mean by that?"

Gwen shakes her head, slowly, and looks at him. "She. . .isn't a killer."

Blake hears Ross chuckle softly to himself, writing something down on the report. "All due respect, Ms. Gallo, but how many killers are currently in your acquaintance?"

The question isn't voiced rudely, but for some reason, Blake finds himself bristling a little at his partner's tone.

"They wouldn't be very good killers if they told me," Gwen replies, tracing a finger over the rim of her coffee; she's burned through three cups already.

Blake can't help but crack a smirk at her response. He looks at Ross, who just shrugs and shakes his head. When they began the interview, all parties involved were exhausted. Her shock has waned into exhaustion and now, Blake knows she's past the point of exhaustion.

"Fair enough," his partner concedes. "When did you hear the gun shots?"

Gwen sits back, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. The green scrubs she's look like an odd shade of teal under the florescent lights of the interview room. He can see the dark circles forming under her eyes. Her make up is gone, removed some time when she had been changing into the scrubs at the hospital.

Blake can't help but think how fragile she looks, in the too large scrubs, her tangled, red hair.

"Some time after one," Gwen answers finally. Same answer as the first time Ross asked her, almost two hours ago. People telling the truth will tell the same story over and over again. "I didn't think to look at my phone when I called 911."

Blake sees Ross' expression soften at the girl's response. It's the first time he hasn't been taking the skeptical approach in the interview. If Gwen's even winning _him_ over, there's very little doubt that she's not relating things as they happened.

"Let's wrap this up for now," Blake says, directing his statement towards his partner, though he sees Gwen sit up slightly in her chair when he speaks. "It's pushing five."

Ross glances at the clock on the wall behind Gwen, and nods his assent. He caps his pen and collects his notes from the interview, sliding them into a brown file folder.

Blake's about to stand when Gwen says, "There's one more thing."

"The shooter," she elaborates at his no doubt quizzical look. "He whispered something right before you got there."

Blake and Ross exchange a look. "Go on," Ross tells her after a moment.

Gwen looks uncomfortable as she answers, eyes going to Blake, and he sees that fear again. "He told me, _'Any Gallo will do.'_"

X X X

When Selina finally arrives back to her apartment, it's only then that she allows herself to breathe.

_This was not the plan_, she berates herself. She rips off her gloves and scarf and throwing them on her couch as she walks into her bedroom. Collapsing on to her bed, she pulls the wad of cash tucked inside her belt and sinks into the sheets with a sigh; Egyptian cotton, copper red with a ridiculously high thread count.

"Two sixty, two eighty, three hundred, three twenty. . ." Selina counts quietly, flipping over the twenties in her hand. The watch she'd stolen from the condo was pure gold, but - if she'd had more time to get rid of it - she probably could have gotten a much better price.

A round four hundred. Not bad. Not great, either.

Selina changes out of her suit and pulls on sweats and a tank top, and climbs back onto her bed, utterly drained. It's been a _long_ night.

Her gaze drifts sideways, lackadaisical, around her bedroom, to the paintings leaning up against her vanity and designer purses dangling from the silk changing screen. The one small closet she has is stuffed to the brim with clothes that aren't hers. Pearls and priceless gems lay scattered on her dresser, countless reminders that everything she has to keep her warm at night is not _hers_. Nothing is hers, and yet, she has the power to take almost anything.

This was never _her_ plan.

Shaking herself, Selina sits up and looks over her shoulder at the laptop sitting on her nightstand. She reaches over to grab it, scooting up to sit against her head board, legs crossed and hits the power button.

She pulls up the web browser, fingers clicking across the keyboard. She hears the sound of sirens whiz on by somewhere outside her window, and glances briefly at the fire escape, nervousness tingling at the edges of her senses for a moment. She's never certain if the sirens are for her or not.

This latest job is going to land her in prison again - Selina's almost sure of it. When she had first been contacted to break into the condo, there had been no mention of supplementary gunfire to the job. She's not surprised they lied, but she's anxious that things will escalate. She didn't get to the safe, after all, and that had been her _only_ objective; the shooters had arrived too early.

_Running in to the girl didn't help_, Selina thinks, bitterly. It's just her luck that she'd be tasked to rob one of the few heiress' of Gotham that actually _had_ a heart.

"Cat?"

Selina looks up at the sound of Jen's voice coming from the main room, relaxing.

"Mouse," she calls, loud enough for Jen to hear her, eyes back on the computer screen. She pulls up an article published nearly a decade ago, eyes scanning the page for what she's searching for.

Jen appears, leaning against the doorway and twirling a pearl necklace between her fingers. Her hair is frizzy and unkempt, as usual, Selina notes. The girl puts far less time and effort in to her appearance than her more experienced counterpart, but Selina supposes that's a reflection on how they both prefer to conduct business. Just as Selina has moved on from robbing low-level targets, she knows Jen cannot yet pull off the social climber act, be able to blend in among Gotham's most wealthy and powerful.

Jen is who Selina was ten years ago, before she learned the value of a pretty smile and a cocktail dress that hugs all the right curves.

Maybe that's why she lets the girl stay, teaches her the tricks of the trade and, more importantly, teaches her how _not_ to end up just another Jane Doe in the gutter for Gotham's finest to fish out of the gutters.

"What're you workin' on?" Jen asks her, walking over to sit next Selina on the bed.

"My next mark," Selina replies, flashing the girl a quick smile. "Where'd you get the pearls?"

"Some guy outside the theater on Fifth. He was talkin' to me for a while," Jen says. She leans in, reading over Selina's shoulder; and Selina catches the scent of cigarettes and cologne.

"That _all_ he was doing?" Selina asks, sardonic.

She clicks the 'back' button and pulls up another article. Where the _hell_ is it? The information she needs is on the tip of her tongue - she remembers reading it in the paper, a very long time ago - and thinks that it's a shame she doesn't have a photographic memory. Gotham's sleaziest marks would _really_ be in trouble if she did.

Jen's smile is answer enough. "I _think_ he was gonna give 'em to his girlfriend. . ." she drawls, no hint of sadness in her tone.

Selina makes an '_oh_' with her mouth, eyebrows knitting together. "That's harsh, hun."

"Yeah well, where else am I gonna find a guy to give me pearls?" Jen shrugs, spreading her hands. She shifts the pearls from one hand to another, and eventually drops them onto Selina's nightstand. They share all their spoils together, something also never part of Selina's original plan in life. Sharing leaves less for you, more for others who can use it against you.

"You're not gonna find the marrying type in our line of work, Jen. . ." Selina begins, but trails off as her scans down another article, eyes alighting on the information she needs. It really should be easier for her to stalk her prey. It takes the fun out of it - the thrill - when they practically fall right in to her lap.

A billionaire, however. . .well, that might just be fun no matter how things go down, and she'll make sure they go down in her favor.

"_Him?_" Jen says, surprised, looking at the picture featured in the article. "How are you gonna get to _him?_"

Selina exits out of the web browser, shuts down her laptop and flips the top closed, all in seconds. She shoots Jen a sharp look, slipping into sensei mode automatically.

"Rule number four," she instructs her young protege. "_Every_one can be gotten to."

Even eccentric former playboy Bruce Wayne.

X X X

"Take the next right," Gwen tells Blake.

They're riding in an off duty vehicle towards her old apartment - well, _soon_ to be old apartment. She hasn't quite finished moving out just yet and, after all that's happened in the last several hours, she's not so sure she wants to move back _in_ with her parents.

Her gaze is fixed on the sun rise in the rear view mirror, mind wandering to the chaos of the night: the dead eyes of the masked shooter, the screams of all the party guests. She wonders if she'll have nightmares, despite never having trouble sleeping before; that will be different now, however. . .a lot of things will be different.

"What did she look like?" Gwen asks suddenly, looking at Blake.

His knuckles tense around the steering wheel, gaze still on the road. "Who?" He says, feigning ignorance.

"The little girl." She swallows the sudden lump in her throat as she continues, "there were two at the party."

Blake pulls up in front of her apartment building, the facing a modern mix of light concrete and brick. It's about a half hour's drive from her parents' home, closer to the middle income neighborhoods of the lower east side, away from the glitz and glam of east side. He cuts the engine and gets out of the car; Gwen follows suit, silently, pulling the key card from her purse and swiping it in front of the security pad.

Blake holds the door for her and asks, "What good will that do you?" They approach the elevators and he hits the 'up' button, standing back. "It's not your burden to bear," he mutters, running a hand through his close-cropped hair.

Gwen forces herself to speak, even as she feels her throat constricting. "I'll bear it whether I want to or not. . .just like everybody else at that party will."

Something in her tone must get to him, because she sees his stoic expression shift to one of empathy. The elevator doors slide open and they step in; Gwen leans forward to hit '5' on the keypad. She's not sure how far he's going to go with her - walk her to her door? Check her windows for break ins? Tuck her in to bed?

That last thought has her blushing, unexpectedly.

"Blonde," Blake eventually answers, his voice low. "She was blonde."

_Gianna_, Gwen realizes. She feels a sudden pang in her middle, and has to focus on remaining upright as the doors slide open to her floor; cream colored carpeting and modest wall sconces line the hall to her apartment. Blake follows behind as she walks to her end unit 517, unlocks the door and enters. She drops her purse on the table by the door and walks straight to the bathroom off to the left, falls forward and retches into the toilet.

The only problem is, she hasn't eaten in the last several hours, party hors d'oeuvres notwithstanding. She gasps between convulsions, and feels tears slide out of the sides of her shut eyes.

When she feels hands pull back her hair from her face, she doesn't register in her mind that it's Blake until she shakily sits back on her heels and leans against the wall. He's kneeling before her again, a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Here," he murmurs, pressing the toilet paper to the corner of her mouth. "I was hoping this wouldn't happen to you."

Gwen welcomes the distraction his words offer from his close proximity to her. She's exhausted and mortified and completely _drained_ from everything else she's feeling at the moment that she can't name. It has been a longer night than she cares to remember, and the aftermath of all that's happened is far from over.

_Storm's coming_, she recalls the cat's words, and feels a shiver trace down her spine.

Gwen draws herself from her thoughts. "Hoping what wouldn't happen?" She repeats.

Blake stands, grabs a paper cup from a queue next to the sink and fills it with water. "That the shock wouldn't wear off until you'd gotten some rest."

Shock, that's it. That's why she feels like she's been run over by a big rig. At least it has a name.

"Thanks, Blake," she says softly.

He looks like he's going to say something, but instead he pauses The lines in his forehead soften and fade, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He looks much younger when he's not so grim, Gwen decides; his face kinder, less troubled.

"Call me John," he offers.

X X X

Gotham Park at sunset is one of the few sights that will bring a genuine, unadulterated smile to Selina Kyle's lips - and she doesn't smile for much. Her childhood and youth have left her inhibitions - well, _very_ inhibited. She only allows herself to feel what is absolutely necessary, what she needs to keep herself alive.

But damn. There's just something about the pure, unpolluted greenery, the winding gravel pathways and few small lakes that occupy the park. It's an oasis in the middle of a dirty concrete jungle and the cacophony of traffic fades and gives way to the sounds of nature; birds, grasshoppers, squirrels, even deer. That's how expansive the park is, Gotham's only wildlife refuge.

Selina can't get enough of it - and neither can, apparently, Bruce Wayne. About nine years ago, before the hospital explosion and Batman fled the city, the billionaire had given an interview in congruence with his donation to Gotham's parks and recreation division.

"It is my hope that Gotham will continue to preserve these sanctuaries around the city," Wayne had stated. "And I'll admit to enjoying a midnight stroll every once in awhile, if only to catch a break from the every day hustle and bustle."

Selina had shaken her head when she'd read that online earlier. _You know exactly how to play 'em, Mr. Wayne_, she thinks.

By the time midnight rolls around, Selina's doubting whether or not he's going to be there. She's been scouting the pathways since sunset, and knows the whole venture is a gamble at best. He may have just been playing up the philanthropist angle, but some small part of her tugs at the belief that the interview was an attempt to pander to the crowd. And, if a recluse like Wayne is ever going to take a stroll through the park he helped keep alive, it'll be on a quiet week night like this one. . .

The crunch of tennis shoes on gravel up ahead causes a thrill to go up her spine.

She smirks, triumphant; she _is_ good.

Her heartbeat picks up its pace inside her chest in anticipation, but when she turns the corner, there's nobody there. She realizes what's happened a second before his voice comes from the tree line to her left.

"Now, what would a girl like you be doing out this time of night?"

The voice is low and masculine; a smile is curling on her lips as she turns, and gives her best humble and flustered impression of a girl out to enjoy a peaceful nighttime walk. He's standing next to a maple, cane in hand, dark pants and boots, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head.

"A girl like me?" She echoes, eyes narrowing in the near darkness. She's having trouble making out his exact expression, the nearest lamppost several yards down the path. "What kind of girl do I seem like?"

An amused grunt, then. "Someone who knows what she's doing," he replies, stepping forward so she can make out his features more clearly.

She has to give it to him - even as a recluse, Bruce Wayne is a handsome man. No facial scars like all the rumors - brown, wavy hair, strong jaw, imposing height and broad build. If she wasn't trying to figure out how best to steal from him, she may actually enjoy flirting with him, if only for fun.

Just to see his reaction, she takes a few slow steps towards him, tilting her head to the side as she does. He stiffens, but doesn't move as she comes closer, her eyes glancing over his entire form, how his body leans on the weight of his cane.

His eyes are narrowed, in calculation or caution, she's not certain. "You really shouldn't be out here alone. The park's not safe this time of night," he informs her quietly.

She almost wants to laugh, him counseling her like she's some naive little girl who stumbled into the deep, dark forest after hours. Well, she supposes that _is_ who she's impersonating at the moment.

"But I'm not alone," Selina counters, smiling at him. "I've got you here to protect me."

"Is that what I'm doing?" He says, arching an eyebrow. He leans back a little, and his stance is still wary, slightly tensed. He's prepared for her to strike, and the thought is almost tantalizing enough for Selina to test her skills, and to test his as well.

His voice goes flat as he says, "I was under the impression I was being followed."

It sounds like a warning to her ears. The smile on Selina's face is replaced with a smirk as she steps back and crosses her arms. No need for the act anymore, as much as she loves pretending to be someone she's not.

"Come now, Mr. Wayne. Would I _stalk _you? You make me sound like some sort of criminal."

"I don't know," he replies slowly. "Do you make a habit of stalking cripples?"

Selina rolls her eyes, and looks up at the sky for dramatic effect. "Ah, yes. The self pity play."

She takes one step and she's before him again, boldly pressing her hands on either side of his arms, and tip toeing up to his ear. She can feel his body go rigid beneath her gloved finger tips. She speaks with the confidence of one who knows she's in no danger; Bruce Wayne, for all his flaws, would never hurt a woman - that's one thing she's certain of.

Which gives her all the more latitude to play with.

"Self pity doesn't suit you, Mr. Wayne," she whispers in his ear. "I much prefer your suave gentleman act instead."

When she leans back, she can see the confusion - and intrigue - in his dark eyes. She resists the urge to press a kiss to his lips, half parted in question, and laughs softly to herself. He's looking at her like she's a wild animal, about to pounce at any moment, and she enjoys the thrill of it. None of her marks have been able to recognize _her_ underneath the act at first sight.

She flashes him a smile before turning to leave. He doesn't stop her or say anything in return, just lets her go off. As she's meandering down the pathway in the direction of old town, it hits her.

After all she's been through, she's still a sucker.

Damn.


	5. I will always be there for you

It was tough finding time to get this chapter to paper from the outline I have, but I hope it's up to par. I can't tell you how happy it makes me to read all your reviews and comments. You guys are the best. Also - if everything goes according to plan, we'll be delving into the movie's beginning events (namely Dent Day) by chapter seven :)

Thanks to sgt pippa for beta-ing this one!

X X X

Bravura

"_I will always be there for you."_

X X X

When Blake arrives at the precinct the following day, he's only half surprised to see it nearly empty. The large room is littered with countless cookie cutter desks, some tidy and clear, others cluttered and overflowing with paperwork to the brim. Windows line the east side, afternoon light spilling in; the rays just reach part of Blake's desk as he sits down and settles in.

He boots up his computer, and rubs a rough hand over his face in an attempt to wipe the sleep from his eyes; it's been a long twenty-four hours. He didn't leave Gwen's apartment until sometime around six, staying until she started nodding off on her couch. Only after he was sure that she was fast asleep did get up from the chair across her and let himself out; the fear may not have been gone from her completely, but he hopes that she found temporary reprieve in her dreams.

Blake takes a swig of his coffee, keying in his log in on the computer screen. It's half past one in the afternoon already and he hopes that Ross will be in soon. Grace won't be too keen on letting her husband leave so soon after such an eventful night, but the quicker they run down all the leads, the quicker they can solve the case and move on. It's a tough reality to swallow, but one that significant others of everyone in the force must accept.

"Morning,"

Blake's head snaps up as Ross trudges in, dropping his keys and coffee on his desk across the walkway from him.

Ross arches an eyebrow as he collapses into his chair, knocking back a few gulps of coffee. "Jittery?" He heaves a deep sigh.

Blake shakes his head, and pulls up the main data system on his screen. "When am I ever jittery?"

"Good point," Ross shrugs, turning on his computer as well. "You running background checks on the guests?"

Blake nods, scanning a few reports that ran quicker than expected. Most of the guests in attendance at the party are clean - a few DUI's, one drunk and disorderly, nothing violent. A couple have sealed juvenile records, which doesn't surprise Blake in the least. The wealthy youth of Gotham have felt entitled since the day they were born – his captain sees it but doesn't comment on it, and all the cops are aware of it.

_Not all of them_, Blake reminds himself. He glances down at the open report on his desk that lists everyone in attendance at the party, and jumps down to Vincent Gallo, the girl's father.

"You pull up anything on Gallo?" Blake asks while he waits for the preliminary report to load on his screen.

"Mother or father?" Ross clarifies. "I assume you don't mean the daughter. . ." Something in his tone makes Blake glance over at him suspiciously.

"What?" Ross exclaims half-heartedly, his hands up in defense. "I'm just sayin'."

Blake eyes him warily, reluctantly turning in his chair to face the older cop. "Because you're my partner, I'll humor you: what _are_ you saying, Ross?"

Ross widens his eyes in mock innocence. "I'm just saying that she doesn't seem guilty," he concedes, his tone light. He waves around a manila folder, as if needing something to do with his hands. "And that she's rather. . .lovely."

Blake just stares, eyebrow arched. He repeats the word carefully, like he's allergic to it, "_Lovely?_"

Ross winces slightly at his tone. "Yeah, you know. Lovely. Even without make-up and use of a hair brush," he finishes, rather lamely.

Blake's thrown by the statement. Lovely? When did his partner _ever _use a word like that? When did he _himself_ ever use a word like that?

He knows they've become close confidants ever since they were paired together by the captain for patrol, but never in those few short years has the subject of Blake's personal life arisen. It's always been Ross telling him about Grace, how they went apartment shopping, how he proposed, how – since they found out they were expecting – Grace occasionally turns into a hormonal and unreasonable version of herself, demanding everything under the sun, and some things that aren't.

Now, Blake doesn't have much of a personal life to speak of, but that's beside the point. After staying with Gwen until she fell asleep on the couch – something he _never_ does with victims, let alone people in general – he's not quite comfortable talking about it just yet with one of the few people he trusts.

"Lovely, huh," Blake deadpans, shaking his head again. He turns back to his computer and smirks, knowing exactly what to say to silence his partner. "Grace teach you that word?"

"Shut up, man," Ross mutters. "I'm just tryin' to help."

"Uh huh," Blake echoes, his partner's words sinking into his mind nonetheless.

X X X

When she finally drags herself into the bathroom, Gwen welcomes the hot shower like an old friend after years of weary travel. She tilts her face up towards the spray, closes her eyes and lets the water wash away all the grime and body aches she has accumulated over the last twenty four hours.

For a moment, when she awoke on her couch, she was disoriented and groggy, as if she had a hangover – and then the memory of the night before came flooding back to her in stark clarity. The party, the cat, the shooters, the bodies. . .and Blake, taking care of her every step of the night, finally dropping her off at home in the early hours of the morning. And staying with her until she drifted off into a troubled sleep.

The memory of him helping her up from the bathroom floor and onto her couch doesn't embarrass her so much as it confuses her. How long had he stayed? When exactly had she drifted off? Had he gone home after? Back to the precinct?

She grabs the soap and begins scrubbing down every inch of her body, picking the dirt out from under her nails. The water continues to beat down on her head, pushing her hair into her face. She lets her eyes close again, and immediately sees Gianna this time, wide, inquisitive blue eyes, hair like the sun.

"Shit," she mutters through gritted teeth. She puts a hand on the tiled shower wall for stability, and takes a deep breath.

When she's done, she climbs out, dries off and changes into loose black pants and a grey shirt. She runs a comb through her hair and lets it drip dry, brushing her teeth while she walks aimlessly through her near-packed up apartment. She notices the flashing red number '3' on her voice mail machine, and reluctantly hits 'PLAY.'

"_Gwen, it's your father." _She almost laughs; as if anyone else would sound so professional when calling her. _"Your mother told me you're fine, which is a relief, but we need discuss a few things, and soon. We'll be over around two tomorrow, please be decent and ready to talk. See you then."_

Two? Gwen glances at the clock, still clutching the toothbrush, and curses herself for sleeping in so late. The kit kat clock on her kitchen wall stares back at her with unblinking eyes: it's a quarter of.

"Perfect timing, Dad," she mutters, walking briskly back to the bathroom and rinsing out her mouth. Her stomach rumbles in want of food, but she pushes aside the thought and plays the next two voice mail on her machine. She doesn't want to eat just yet.

"_Hey Gwen, it's Mikey. Just wanted to make sure you're OK. I feel terrible that I didn't go back in to find you, but it was crazy with everybody rushing out last night. . .did you hear about the Jameson girl? God, it's. . .I can't imagine. . .well, give me a call when you can. You know me, I'll be worried 'til I hear from you. Bye."_

Gwen's touched by the worry in his voice, and after having just listened to her father, she's also acutely aware of how paternal Mikey sounds in comparison with her father's ever-pragmatic approach to personal matters. She doesn't dwell on it further, however, as a sharp rapping at her door startles her, the toothbrush clattering to the tiled floor of the kitchen; she glances at the kit kat clock – exactly two.

_Right on time,_ she sighs, snatching up the toothbrush and walking to the door.

"Gwen!" Her mother exclaims, enveloping her in fierce hug.

Gwen's eyes widen in surprise as she belatedly returns the gesture, patting her mom on the shoulder almost awkwardly. The spontaneous affection throws her for a loop, but she knows this is how her mother would act if she didn't care so much about the perceptions and judgments of others. Her mother, Eliana, is the kind of person who only reveals her true feelings in private - and even then, they're mostly guarded behind a carefully cultivated mask.

After a night of near death experiences, however, it seems that Eliana Gallo has let her delicate facade fall away for the time being.

"We were so worried, honey," she exclaims as Gwen steps aside to let her parents inside.

Her father is quiet at first, and gives her a swift nod as he walks past. "It's good to see you unscathed, Gwen," he comments.

Gwen only nods, and tries not to think of Mikey, who would've crushed her in a hug like her mother just had upon seeing her safe and sound.

They walk into the living room, her parents claiming the couch as Gwen sinks into the plush, Merlot-colored chair across from them. She tucks her feet under herself, pushing her half-dried hair behind her ears and out of her face. Even after years of deconstructing the person her parents have tried to mold her into, she's still uncomfortable under the piercing gaze of her father.

Vincent Gallo has always been a serious man, reserved and professional; whereas her mother, Eliana, is neurotic (organized to the public eye), dramatic (passionate to her friends) and guarded (classy among Gotham's social circles). Her moods can shift like the changing of tides, while her husband remains a cold, distant constant.

As if sensing the silent standoff between her husband and daughter, Gwen's mother speaks up.

"How are you, darling?" Her mother asks, leaning forward and pressing a hand to her chest. "I saw you climb into the ambulance with that cop."

Gwen notices how her father stiffens slightly where he's sitting, and chooses her next words carefully.

"He took me to the hospital to get the all clear," she replies, her gaze on her mother. "The worst I needed was stitches on my knee." She unconsciously brushes her knee, wincing slightly at the tenderness of the wound.

"Oh, that's not too bad," her mother says distractedly, glancing at her husband. "You weren't downstairs when the-" she breaks off then, and looks down, unable to continue.

Gwen looks down at her hands, locked in her lap. She pushes past the sudden lump in her throat and shakes her head in answer.

Her father speaks then, drawing her gaze up again. "Were you in the condo?" He asks, his gaze fully on her.

She wonders why he doesn't bring up the fact that they were robbed as well - and doubts for a moment whether or not the cat actually got away with anything. She knows that her father could be omitting information in the interest of protecting himself, well aware that not all her father's business partners are on the straight and narrow. Some are very dangerous; dormant threats that can erupt at any time, should he make the wrong move.

She knows all of this, and worse, her father knows she knows.

"I was in the hallway," she answers, meeting her father's gaze. Dark brown eyes, just like her own. "I rushed down the stairs when all the commotion broke out."

Technically, it's the truth, just not all of it. Two can play at that game.

"And this cop," her father says, glancing at his wife briefly. "Officer Blake, your mother told me. He brought you back here last night?"

Gwen's suddenly unsure of where this line of questioning will lead, but it doesn't feel right. Her father is fishing, but for what, she doesn't know, and she's not certain where to step next.

"I had no other way of getting home," she says, decidedly vague. "I took a cab to the party last night."

_A little girl is dead today_, she thinks, resentful. _And you're worried about saving face._

"I'm aware of that, Gwen," her father returns, a slight edge to his tone. "But you've always preferred blunt honesty over tact, so I'll be straight with you."

_How kind of you, Daddy, _she thinks, suddenly irritated.

Her father looks at her directly. At first, his face betrays none of the emotion Gwen suspects is brewing just beneath the surface, until she notices the slightest of twitches in his forehead, his one tell, and the slight darkening of gray hair at his temples.

All of a sudden, it hits her: he's nervous.

"The shooter was there for me," her father finally relents. "And the less the police know, the better for everyone. Including you," he warns.

_Any Gallo will do_, she recalls, and the words send a shiver down her spine.

X X X

"And I'll be well. . ._compensated_ for my efforts?" Selina drawls.

She shifts in her chair, stirring her coffee with her free hand. The creep, Stryver, is sitting across from her and is dressed impeccably in a tailored pinstripe suit with his hair gelled back until it shines with an oily gloss.

_Total creep_, Selina grimaces, keeping her best people-pleasing smile in place.

Something twitches in the side of Stryver's cheek as he clears his throat, eyes darting to the entrance of the cafe where they decided to meet. It's a hole in the wall kind of place, well away from her apartment, but still in an area of old town where she knows all the alley ways and side streets that can afford her escape should the need arise.

"Monetarily, no," Stryver replies, straightening his tie. His wide, light colored eyes make Selina feel uncomfortable with their sharp, focused stare. "But I believe there's something more you desire than a plush bank account, Ms. Kyle."

The smile on Selina's face shifts into a slanted smirk. She leans forward, elbows on the stained glass table. "No names, sweetheart," she says quietly. At Stryver's pause, she continues, "Now, tell me what you had in mind."

He gives her a patronizing look, as if chastising a wayward child. "A chance to start over," he says slowly, "A clean slate."

For just a second, Selina lets her carefully schooled facade of feigned boredom slip, and leans back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest.

"I knew Dagget had balls, but I didn't think he had anything to _actually_ back it up," she murmurs, almost to herself.

The smile Stryver gives her is chilling in its triumph. "Never underestimate a good business partner," he chides her. He adds, after a beat, "Ms. _Kyle_."

Selina rolls her eyes, waving a hand through the air. "I want proof," she tells him, "It's been my experience that men like to exaggerate-" at this, she arches an eyebrow, eyes flitting down for a moment, "-what they're packing, if you know what I mean."

Stryver nods, and pulls out his phone, taps a few buttons and presses it to his ear. He holds up a finger to Selina, who narrows her eyes in annoyance, and speaks into the phone.

"Has it been dropped?" He inquires, eyes on Selina. That chilling smile, again. "Good, meet you back in twenty."

After he hangs up, he sits a little straighter and folds his hands on the table. Selina looks at him, as if to say _well, get on with it_.

"Product specs and photos of the program are waiting on your doorstep," he relays in a flat tone, toothy smile still in place. "Unit fifty-four at eighty-first Jameson street, correct?"

The smile falls from Selina's face as she hears her apartment address recited to her.

_Smiling bastard_, she scowls.

X X X

The windows of Gwen's building are reflecting the last few tendrils of twilight as she and Mikey make their way up the stoop and into the entrance way. When she called him after her parents left that afternoon, he offered to drive her to the market to get groceries since her fridge was close to empty after packing up most of her belongings a few weeks prior; the end of the month still several days out.

"These should hold you over for awhile." Mikey holds up a couple grocery bags he has in hand. He'd insisted on carrying everything up from his car, despite Gwen's protests.

"Long enough for me to figure out what I'm gonna do next," Gwen tells him. She has very few secrets from Mikey; she leans on him like a daughter does a doting uncle, made all the more pivotal by the fact that her own father treats her rather like an employee instead of his own flesh and blood.

As they step into the elevator, Mikey blows a slow whistle through his lips and shakes his head. "So no moving back in?" He asks delicately.

Gwen sighs, and runs a hand over her face. "Maybe before last night. But now. . ." she trails off, looking at Mikey.

He gives her a sympathetic look as they arrive at her floor and walk out. "Nobody'd blame you if you stayed here. I certainly wouldn't," he says with a shake of his shoulders. "Either way, my boys and I will help you move if you need it."

Gwen finds herself smiling, grateful and choked up all at once. She's known Mikey since she was in grade school, and quickly took to him and his two sons when her parents had purchased the top floor condo of the building. Between Mary and him inadvertently raising her when her parents weren't looking (which was often), she knew she'd turn out alright.

"Alden and Jake are lucky kids," Gwen says meaningfully. She holds her hands out for the groceries, which Mikey reluctantly hands over as they arrive at her door.

"Yeah, they're not too bad for a couple of knuckleheads," Mikey says, though his proud smile contradicts his nonchalant tone. "Sure you don't want one of 'em to stay the night here with you?"

Gwen waves him off, shifting the grocery bags to one hand while she slides her key into the lock with the other. "I'll be alright. Thanks, though," she tells him.

Mikey is giving her a look she recognizes, one he uses to scrutinize his sons when he's unsure if they're telling him the truth or not. After a beat, he sighs and nods, running a hand through his graying hair.

"Don't hesitate to call me, or one of them," he offers up.

Gwen nods, and assures him she will. He gives her arm a quick squeeze and leaves down the hall, disappearing into the elevator. She's got her door halfway open, sliding through with the groceries when she feels something off, the back of her neck prickling with a strange sense of apprehension.

It's only until she walks blindly into her dark kitchen - the ambient light of Gotham only does so much, coming in through the windows - and flicks on the light, that she figures out why.

Three men stand by the bar, one dressed in a well-tailored gray pinstripe suit, the other two in all black. The one in the suit is standing in front of the two taller, more muscled men, hands clasped in front of him, an odd, crooked smile stretching across his sharp features.

Fight or flight, the options race across Gwen's mind like darts, as her eyes go between the three men. She carefully places down her groceries, keeping her purse on her shoulder; the mace and cell phone are inside, but she can't reach for them without being noticed.

Sudden recognition prickles at the back of her mind as the man in the suit speaks.

"Ms. Gallo," he says, his voice syrupy smooth. It makes Gwen's spine go rigid. "What a pleasure . And here Boris thought you weren't going to come home," he nods to the bearded man to his right.

"Did he now?" Gwen breathes softly, eyes flicking quickly to the silent man in question; dead eyes stare back at her. When she looks at the man in the suit again, it hits her, and she tries to keep the tremor from her voice when she says, "Stryver, isn't it? You were at the party last night."

The man - Stryver, she's sure now - seems to bristle when she recalls him by name, straightening the lapel of his jacket ever so slightly.

"An impeccable memory," he remarks, eyes narrowing. "And what a perfect segue way as well. The party - ah, I believe your father already spoke with you on the delicate nature of what transpired."

_Damn you, Dad,_ Gwen thinks, taking an instinctive step back, one hand going inside her purse. At this, Stryver makes an 'ah ah' sound with his mouth, shaking his head.

"Let's not complicate things, Gwendolyn," he tells her, and she freezes on the spot. "You don't mind if I call you that, do you? I've had such a long standing relationship with your father, I had hoped we can converse on a first name basis."

"What do you want?" Gwen all but demands, tense, though she knows she's in no position to use such a tone. Even if she could dial '911,' who knows what state she'd be in by the time the cops arrive - beaten, kidnapped, dead. Running could be an option; she's quick from years of track in high school, but the closest safe haven she could run to is at least several blocks away.

"Cooperation," Stryver replies, shrugging, as if it's the most evident thing in the world. "With us, and with your father. I don't see an issue arising as long as everybody plays their part here."

With that he straightens, and nods to the two men standing behind them; they file out of the kitchen and brush past Gwen silently. Her gaze remains on their retreating backs, every muscle in her body tense to the point of aching.

Stryver inclines his head in her direction and begins to walk out the way the muscle just did. He pauses at the doorjamb, glancing over his shoulder.

"Needless to say, the police must remain in the dark," he remarks airily, then turns and leaves.

She listens for the thick tread of footsteps retreating down the hallway before she runs to her front door and slams the door latch locked, turning the dead bolt for good measure. She slides down to sit on the floor in front of her door, holding her head between her knees for a moment as she listens to the sound of her own breathing.

First her father warns her, now Stryver, who _knows_ that he was already there. The shooter who found her had committed suicide, but he must not have gotten the job done - whatever the job _was_ - because Stryver was there to ensure loose ends didn't lead back to. . .well, _some_body. She recalls then that Stryver has a business partner - she can't remember his name now, but she's certain he was at the party, too. Is _that_ who's behind all the veiled threats to her and her family?

She scrubs a hand over her face, smearing eyeliner on her fingers. What the _hell_ has her father gotten involved in? Before she can despair further, she pulls her phone out and dials the number Blake left with her the previous night; he answers after the second ring.

"Hey, what's up?" His voice comes over the line, rough and worried. When she doesn't immediately answer, he asks, "Are you okay?"

Some of the tension goes out of her shoulders at his concern for her, but not all of it. "No," she whispers, her throat tight. "I'm not. I'm at my apartment; I think I'm in trouble."

There's a brief pause, and then she hears him say, "I'll be there soon."


	6. This world is worth being a part of

Thank you to all the continued support from reviewers, readers and alerters! (That a word?) You guys are seriously the best.

This will be the last installment before Dent Day begins! The calm before the storm. I apologize for the lack of BatCat in this one, but there will be much more once the movie starts, had to focus on Bruce's mindset a little before Selina walks in and turns everything upside down ; ) So. . .read up & let me know how you like :)_ & _thanks to sgt pippa for beta-ing! _-Clairose_

X X X

Bravura

_"This world is worth being a part of."_

X X X

Gwen clutches the mug of hot cocoa in both hands, fighting a chill that has nothing to do with Gotham's night air just outside her windows. She's curled up on the couch, feet tucked under, eyes following Blake as he scours every inch of her apartment, checking for lingering threats.

It was both surprising and comforting, how fast he had arrived at her apartment after she'd called him. Only twenty minutes had passed before there was a brisk knock on the door, the sound startling her from her sitting position on the other side. After determining that no physical harm had come to her, he'd quickly set to investigating the rest of her apartment.

Normally, it would make Gwen uncomfortable, having someone combing through her personal space. But after having packed up much of her belongings in preparation for the move, she knows there isn't much for Blake to stumble on that she'd rather keep to herself.

And not that she minds him being here, anyway.

She watches him draw the curtains to the windows that look out over the city - a rather beautiful view - and comes to sit next to her on the couch. He's in street clothes, black knit sweater over a button up and dark jeans; his winter jacket lay discarded on the chair.

He looks around the apartment, and then back at her. "If they left anything behind, I couldn't find it," he says into the silence. There's a hard, subtle edge to his tone that isn't lost on her.

She nods, taking another sip of the cocoa. The hot liquid burns down her throat, but she needs the caffeine from the chocolate, already feeling a headache blooming between her ears.

"Thanks for getting here so fast," Gwen says quietly, meeting his gaze.

He turns to her, his forehead still furrowed from concentration, but the lines of his face soften a little as he looks at her. "I'm glad you called," he says earnestly.

His eyes are still guarded, but the tone of his words betrays his somber expression. Unbidden, Gwen feels heat creep into her cheeks at the warm reply, and looks down at the cup in her hands. When she'd called him earlier, it was with the thought of self-preservation and nothing else; he was the only person she knew who had the knowledge and skill to help her.

_And_ make her feel safe.

She hears Blake clear his throat gently. "You knew the guys that were here?" He asks, professional again.

Gwen puts the mug down on the coffee table, and leans back. "One of them. He works with my father. The other two were here for theatrical effect, I think," she finishes, slightly bitter.

"I'm sure they were," Blake mutters, as if to himself. "What's his name? Your dad's associate," he clarifies.

"Stryver. One of many, it seems," Gwen replies, the chill deepening as she recalls the eerie, vacant look in his eyes, his hollow smile. "He was at the party last night, too."

At this, she sees Blake pause, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "He wasn't on our list of attendees," he reveals. "He should've been."

"Probably why he didn't want me talking to the police," Gwen deduces, pulling the cuffs of her shirt down over her wrists. Despite wearing long sleeves, thick socks and pants, she can't shake this chill.

"But you're talking to me," Blake counters, drawing Gwen from her thoughts.

She opens her mouth to say something, but closes it, pausing. Her immediate response is _but you're not the police_, and she realizes that just sounds silly. What she really means is, _I don't think of you as the police_.

Almost as if reading the hesitation on her face, Blake gratefully saves her from answering when he speaks up. "Either way, it's a huge risk for you. Do you have anyone else you can stay with? Your parents?"

At that, she winces and shakes her head. "That was the plan. But if they haven't changed the locks already. . .I wouldn't want to stay there anyway," she admits.

She sees the realization dawn on Blake's face. He nods to the space around them, indicating the rest of her apartment. "Is that why you were all packed up?"

Gwen nods, reaching for the cocoa again. She takes a sip to buy herself some time in answering, wondering how much of her personal life she should dump on a guy she just met. Though, being a cop (even a rookie, like she assumes he is), he's probably capable of handling more than most. It's not as if they met on normal terms, either. They've both been through quite a lot in the last forty-eight hours.

She looks at him, his neutral, calm expression - sometimes darkened by anger at injustice - and remembers the patient way in which he's waited while she's had to put her thoughts together before answering any of his questions, and decides to tell him the truth. It's not in her nature to be shrewd - except where her parents are concerned, she supposes. Mary didn't raise her to be that kind of person; cautious, yes, but never misanthropic.

"You don't have to tell me, you know," Blake says, his voice low. He looks like he might say more, but looks away and lets out an inaudible sigh. "You _do_ realize the risk you take, talking to me about all of this?"

Mary's words echo in Gwen's mind, then, and she feels the ghost of a smile trace along her lips.

_People don't want sorry, they want compassion. Sorry doesn't put a jacket around a freezing child's shoulders_, Mary had told her. They were at an orphanage, visiting with a few of the children whom Mary cared to look after personally, in addition to caring for Gwen.

She thinks of Gianna, and of the other people gunned down at the party, and knows in her heart what Mary would want her to do.

"It's worth the risk," Gwen says, meeting Blake's eyes briefly. She looks down at her empty mug of cocoa, the dark dregs of powder that cling to the bottom that didn't dissolve. "Risking my life to help bring justice for the deaths of several. . .someone's baby girl. It doesn't seem like such a bad trade off," she admits quietly.

When she looks back up at Blake, he's got that unreadable expression in place again, eyebrows drawn together, mouth half parted in question.

X X X

"What?" she says, as if suddenly unsure of her resolve to lay down her life for total strangers.

Blake's having trouble wrapping his head around it; her words have stumped him so thoroughly. He knows since he met her that she has altruistic tendencies, but never did he think it extended to the point of such selflessness she just admitted.

She's looking at him, expectant, her long, auburn hair shading half her face in the soft lighting of the apartment. She's got her knees curled up to her chest, hands still wrapped around the yellow and black Gotham Knights mug. She's in a loose gray tee and sweats, but it doesn't look bad on her.

"John?"

He shakes himself, bringing his mind back to the present and answers as honestly as he can.

"You surprise me. I'm not used to it," he responds simply with a shrug. "Usually I'm the one surprising people," he adds.

This brings a smile to her lips and, hesitant as it is, he likes it. Her face changes, brightens, when she does so. Within the next breath, the smile is gone, but her expression is still loose, relaxed.

"Well, we _did_ just meet," she downplays, but he can hear the lingering amusement in her voice. "I'm sure it's all downhill from here."

Blake smiles reflexively at her comment, breaking eye contact for a moment. After a beat, he drags his attention back to why he's at her apartment in the first place.

"About Stryver," he begins, and immediately sees her shoulders tense. "If he paid you a visit tonight, he'll most likely be back to make sure you kept your promise."

She nods, albeit grudgingly.

"I'll do what I can, digging into his background," Blake promises her, "but in the mean time, I think you should stay somewhere else. Is there anybody you trust beyond your parents?"

Part of him hopes she'll say yes, that she has a friend - or a boyfriend - that is under the radar where she can stay until he can sort out the whole relationship between this creep and her father. And then there's a part of him, small yet present, that hopes she'll say no, because the diligent perfectionist in him, the cop at heart that doesn't trust anyone who hasn't proven themselves, only trusts himself to fully protect her from whatever her father has roped her into.

And he'll be damned if he's going to admit that last part aloud.

Her hesitation is almost an answer in and of itself. Eventually she concedes, "There is someone, but. . ."

Blake picks up on the pregnant pause, anticipating her concern before she voices it; he's always been good at reading people, including her.

"But you don't want to put them in danger, too," he finishes for her, and she nods. "Well, a detail is out of the question. I parked down the street, in case they're watching you now."

Her eyes widen at that, gaze darting to the window as she instinctively leans forward from her sitting position to catch a better glimpse of the street.

"Hence the street clothes," she points out, her gaze back on him.

Blake nods, running a hand over his hair. He's not sure how she's going to react to what he has to say next, but the prospect of leaving her alone in her apartment with thugs watching her prompts him to finally spit it out.

"We can keep you at a safe house," he tells her, and immediately sees the surprise register on her features. "But without a blatant threat, I don't know if the department will grant my request."

Blake's not even certain there are safe houses that are active in the city anymore. After the institution of the Dent Act, organized crime in Gotham fell apart over night, and the need for heightened precautionary measures like safe houses went out the window when there weren't any more mob members making threats against witnesses. They're all rotting in jail now.

Truth be told, the shooting the night before and now this threat against Gwen's life is the first set of violent, unsettling acts that he's had to face since joining the force. He knows the protocol of how to deal with a situation - instruct the victim to safeguard themselves, leave a detail if necessary, but take no further action unless an immediate threat of bodily harm arises.

While the visit to her apartment was outwardly threatening, the implication is chilling enough to make Blake feel like SOP isn't enough in this situation.

"When's the last time the police even needed to use a safe house?" Gwen asks suddenly, breaking up his train of thought.

He shakes his head, letting out a deep sigh. "It's been a while, that's for sure," he mutters, feeling latent resentment rise up inside of him. The cops have become lazy over the years, sitting ducks.

She cocks her head to the side, zeroing in on the edge in his voice. "Shouldn't that make you happy?"

"You'd think it would," Blake remarks dryly, "But honestly, this city's been so quiet since Dent. . .I'd like it to last, don't get me wrong. I'm just not so sure it will."

"That's a sad way to look at it," she says quietly, and the gentleness of her voice makes him pause, the anger fading just a little. She doesn't sound patronizing or rude; and he finds himself almost wanting to believe in the naïveté of her statement.

"I'll have to wait until morning to make the request," Blake tells her.

"Morning?" Gwen repeats.

And damned if he doesn't see the fear creep back into her eyes, calm as she seems outwardly. The look reminds him of the boys at St. Swithin's when they first arrive, eyes darting around this way and that, uncertain and apprehensive of the strange new place that will be their home after their previous one was ripped out from under their shoes.

Call it his weakness - that's probably what it is - but he can't stand seeing that look. It reminds him of himself, how he looked when he got to the orphanage, how the confusion and anger of his situation had led him to lashing out at the other, older boys there until Father Riley had straightened him out.

One thing Riley never forced him to do was admit he was alright. Everyone was always asking if he was alright, how he was feeling, how he was doing. The only things Riley ever asked of him were things a seven year old boy could comprehend. Would you like some gravy with your potatoes? Do you want to learn how to play football? Why don't you like sleeping with a night light?

Blake makes up his mind then and there, meeting Gwen's unsteady gaze.

"You have any blankets for this couch?" He asks, and the answering relief that floods her face is confirmation enough that he's said the right thing.

X X X

The east wing of his home always brings to mind the sharpest of memories. There's the regency room, where he first came into this world, writhing and gasping for air, clinging to his mother like a lifeline (or so Alfred once told him). His father's study, where he would sit for hours and watch him work, pouring over his texts, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose when the weight of it all made him too tired. There's one of two kitchens, where he and Rachel would sneak into the cookie jars disguised as decorative storage lining the top cabinets above the fridge.

_Rachel_.

Bruce closes his eyes, turning away from his bedroom window that overlooks the property. His parents' property. It's never entirely felt like his. In a way, the manor is a mausoleum, its grand marble halls and staircases adorned with photographs of the Wayne family - his humble, hard-working father and his kind and beautiful mother. They're buried on this property and, had it been possible, Rachel would have been buried along with them.

Bruce sighs, wrapping his robe tighter around himself, fighting off another chill. He always feels the cold in his bones now, prematurely aged.

Once, there was the laughter of children, soft words spoken between father and son. Now, there is only silence, and the vacuum created by it in his heart.

He makes his way out of his room - dusty, quiet chambers - and down the center staircase to the first floor. Every light is extinguished in the mansion, save for a soft gleam of light that illuminates the hall to the kitchen. He smiles, rueful, and treads into the kitchen with sluggish, heavy footsteps.

Alfred looks up at him from the novel he's reading at the center island, and gives him a brief smile. For once, he's dressed simply in a sweater and pants.

"You're up late, Master Wayne," his oldest friend says, only a slight note of rebuff in his voice. "No cane?"

Bruce spares the man a look before settling down into the bar stool next to him. "I have no need for that act around you, Alfred," he confides.

Alfred gives him a brief nod, turning another page of his book, though Bruce doubts he's still reading. "And what about for yourself?" he asks after a moment, tone light.

Bruce grimaces slightly; he has him there. "Fair enough," he concedes, glancing at the digital clock on the oven, bright green numbers denoting some time after two in the morning. "I couldn't sleep."

Alfred flips the novel closed, removing his glasses. "I believe you need to actually be in bed to sleep, sir," he informs him, no nonsense, though his tone is not unkind.

"I took a walk," Bruce admits. He leans on the counter, his arms crossed. And unlike many others in the last few years, he hadn't been alone.

"I noticed," Alfred comments, the briefest of smiles flashing across his face. "I'm glad to see you're still getting out, even if it is after dark. You haven't gone to the park in quite some time."

Bruce meets Alfred's gaze, his chest tightening at the familiar ache. "Rachel loved that park," he utters, barely audible.

"I know," Alfred says quietly, consolingly and patting Bruce gently on the shoulder. Alfred is not one to relay empty, automatic words of _I'm sorry_ or _It'll get better_. Alfred has never lied to him his entire life; and every time he sees Bruce's stoic mask slip to reveal the pain beneath, he picks up the pieces, the best way he knows how, without making false promises or pleasantries.

Bruce feels the ache pass, not gone completely, but lessened until it's only a dull memory in his bones.

"There was someone else there tonight," Bruce informs him, knowing a change of subject is needed. He's not so sure this slope will be any easier to navigate, however.

Alfred arches an eyebrow, perking up a little. "Was there?"

_Damn_, Bruce thinks. _Always hoping._ He shakes his head as he says, "Not like that, Alfred."

He still isn't quite sure what to make of the girl in the park. He's been taking walks, every so often, through that park for a long time - almost eight years now, he realizes. The walks are always long, quiet and cold; giving him space to think outside of the oppressive brick walls of Wayne manor. And never, in all of those years, has he ever come across another soul.

"So it wasn't a girl?" Alfred inquires; his tone light again.

"Alfred. . ." Bruce warns; standing and pushing his stool back underneath the counter. Maybe he is tired enough to sleep after all.

"Nice talking to you, Master Wayne," his guardian calls after him as Bruce leaves the kitchen. He just shakes his head again, a smile tugging at his lips. Late night talks with the one man who saved him from oblivion after his parents were killed, peppered with gentle teasing in an attempt to heal his heart.

He belatedly wonders if he'll cross paths with her again. Recalling the kiss she left on his cheek, he's certain he knows the answer.

X X X

_She's in the middle of solving an algebra equation when she feels a hand on her shoulder. Her mother's there, eyes red and bleary. The girl's heart sinks to the bottom of her stomach. Her mother never cries._

_"What's happened?" She demands, voice shaking. A sense of dread begins to creep in on her senses._

_Her mother tries to reach for her, but she recoils. "It's Mary. She's. . .not well."_

The sound of her phone going off jolts Gwen from sleep, her heartbeat dipping irregularly. The nightmares again - except they're memories, as well, harder to dispel than someone faceless monster. Shaking it off, Gwen reaches for the phone on her nightstand and hits 'Answer.'

"Hello?" she answers sleepily.

"Hi honey," her mother's voice comes over the line, uncharacteristically chipper. "Are you up? I know it's early, but I'm in the middle of planning that fundraiser we talked about. Can you meet me at, say, noon?"

Gwen rolls her body over to face the alarm clock beside her bed – 6:14 AM. _Awesome_, she thinks. She hasn't had to wake up this early since she graduated from Gotham State last spring.

"Uh. . .sure, Mom," she says, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Party planning is the last thing on her mind, but she doesn't tell her mother that. "What's this for again?"

"In honor of Harvey Dent, next Friday," her mother replies, still chipper. She must've already had her coffee. "Bruce Wayne is offering to host the event at his home outside the city."

This wakes Gwen up a little. Her mother has a hand in organizing almost every social function in the city, and Gwen can't remember the last time that one was held at Wayne manor. She tells her goodbye, promising to meet her at their condo around noon.

She makes her way out of her room and down the short hallway to the living room. Blake's on her couch, arms crossed, brow furrowed in sleep. She approaches him quietly, her thick socks muting her footsteps on the hardwood. He twitches slightly, the frown on his face deepening as she reaches out to lay a hand on his shoulder to wake him.

"Hey, hey," she calls softly.

Blake bolts up, awake, his hand reaching for the gun on the coffee table before she can even register what's happening. He has the gun trained on some distant point beyond her, before his eyes flick to hers and he realizes there's no immediate danger, whatever nightmare he was having, it's not real.

"Sorry," he apologizes, placing the gun back down on the table. "Habit."

Gwen sits on the edge of the couch and nods, feeling the tension ease out of her body. "Bad dreams?" She tries, sympathetic.

Blake looks away, seemingly disappointed, though Gwen's not sure why. "Something like that," he mutters. When he looks back up again, the dark look is gone, replaced with his carefully neutral – professional – expression. "You?" He asks.

Gwen tries to ignore the quick shift in countenance. "Bad memories," she says.

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck and wincing slightly as he does so. Gwen glances at the couch, barely six feet long, and wonders if it's enough space for someone his size to sleep on. In the four years she'd lived at this apartment, she's only ever had two overnight visitors – and they didn't spend the night on the couch.

Glancing at his wrist watch – Gwen doesn't know anyone who still has a wrist watch, and she likes it – Blake tells her, "I have to check in soon. Ross is expecting me at seven."

_Of course_, Gwen thinks. _Because you're a cop, that's your job. And you spent the night on my couch._

"I'm meeting my mother later," Gwen tells him. She heads for the kitchen, and hears his footsteps follow her. "There's a fundraiser next week."

"For Dent Day?" Blake says as she turns on the coffee machine, adding the grounds and water. She doesn't miss the subtle note of bitterness in his tone.

Nodding, Gwen turns around, leaning up against the counter and looks at him. "Do you have something against the guy?" She asks curiously.

Blake meet's her gaze head on from where he stands across from her, and she fights the urge to look away under his suddenly unrelenting gaze.

"It's a long story," he finally answers.

Gwen takes a breath she didn't realize she was holding, and reaches for the coffee, done brewing, pouring them each a steaming cup. "You'll have to tell me sometime," she says, surprising even herself.

Blake takes the offered cup, and says, "Maybe I will."


	7. You will never be alone

Back again, and in the mean time, my little outline I had for this decided to mutate to include another character - fans of Bane, you won't be disappointed. I never planned on going this direction, but when I began writing the Wayne foundation scene, it just sorta popped up.

I'll admit, it's a little disheartening to see so many people favorite and alert this, yet not leave their impressions/thoughts. It only takes a minute, and it spurs and encourages me to write more and write it faster. To those still faithfully reviewing, you have my gratitude!

X X X

Bravura

_"You will never be alone."_

X X X

The next few days before the commemoration of Harvey Dent day pass quickly for Blake. He and Ross chase down every lead they can glean from the party guests. Most everyone is cooperative, with the exception of Phillip Stryver. They save questioning him for last, comparing his version of events to those of others they interview, and much to Blake's dismay, his story matches up. It's only the man's off-kilter smile and vacant eyes that leave him slightly pissed he can't arrest him on the spot.

That, and the fact that he knows he threatened Gwen.

Since that night, Blake offers to drive her places when he's not on duty, and sometimes when he is. He takes her to the funeral of the little girl gunned down at the party, Gianna. Gwen holds it together for most of the ceremony while Blake's fists clench at his side, having trouble swallowing the reality that after so many years of relative peace in Gotham, this strange shooting has claimed the life of one so young.

He wants to walk right up to Stryver, who's standing off to the left of the procession, along with his boss - Daggett, Blake recalls - and throttle the man until he talks.

But he can't do that, for a multitude of reasons. It's against the law. He could severely damage the man's windpipe. It would put Gwen in danger. So he waits, which is something he's terrible at doing. He and Ross keep tabs on Stryver and they simply wait, all the other leads having run cold.

On the day of Harvey Dent's memorial (Blake winces inwardly at the very thought of celebrating the two-faced man), he finds himself in Gwen's living room, pacing while she dresses for the foundation event at Wayne manor that begins at sundown.

It's become a familiar place for him in so little time - her apartment - which is something that both comforts and surprises him. There have been very few places an orphan ever gets to call _safe_, and even though this is not quite it, it's getting there. It's the people that make the place, after all.

He's dressed in his uniform, ready to pick up Ross after dropping Gwen off at the fundraiser. It feels like it's going to be another long, uneventful night. Something in his gut tells him it's not.

A framed picture on the cherry wood bookshelf catches his eye, and Blake walks over, gingerly picking up the photo as if he might break it. He's never been known to have gentle hands, or so he's been told. Silver flourishes frame a female face that looks inherently kind, light blue eyes slightly crinkled with age and laughter. Her dark brown hair is pulled back from her face, a soft smile gracing her features.

"Is this a photo your grandmother?" Blake calls to the bedroom where Gwen is still getting ready.

There's a brief pause, and then, "My nanny. Mary."

Blake nods to himself, taking in this information. The Wayne family butler, Alfred Pennyworth, became Bruce Wayne's guardian after his parents were gunned down. It seems that being brought up under the watchful eye of those who possess the humility and patience to serve others benefited more than just Gotham's unsung hero.

"She's the woman who raised me," he hears Gwen's voice from the bedroom, drawing slowly closer. "Probably the only reason I turned out halfway decent."

This last comment is spoken as she comes out of the short hallway and into the living room, and Blake has to remind himself not to stare.

Gwen's in a willowy-looking dress the color of the sky after the sun has set, a deep twilight blue. The strapless garment gathers just under her bust and fans out to the floor around her. Her auburn hair is styled in loose waves that cover her shoulders and rest almost to her waist. She's wearing very little make up for such a high profile event, but Blake likes it. Despite all the glam, she still looks like the girl he's been spending time with the last several days.

Granted, most of that time she was in sweatpants and too large tee shirts. . .nothing like _this_.

She's looking at him, almost timid and expectant, though he's not sure why she could be remotely timid when she looks like she does right now.

"So. . ." Blake begins, surprisingly at a loss for words. He puts the picture frame of her former nanny back on the bookshelf - sideways. "This is what you look like in a dress," he finishes, a little lamely.

Gwen laughs, a soft, genuine sound and allows him a small smile. "You saw me in a dress the first night we met."

And just like that, Blake feels like he's back in grade school, trying to impress the prettiest girl in his class. This was before his father was killed, before he took on the weight of all of his unfinished expectations. This was when Blake was still a kid, when he was _allowed_ to be a kid.

"Right. Guess I did," Blake says, dumbly. His gaze darts to the picture on the shelf he put back incorrectly. He quickly places the photo right side up, and swears he sees the lightest of blushes on Gwen's cheeks. "Well, this one's. . .nicer," he tells her. "And, you know. Not all torn to shreds."

She ducks her head and laughs softly to herself, fingers clutching at the fabric and fanning it out from herself. "I feel a little silly in this, to be honest."

Blake welcomes the distraction from his previous tongue-tied moment, and quirks an eyebrow. "Why's that?" He asks.

Gwen moves to sit on the couch, the dress puffing out around her naturally from the light, gauzy weight of it. He sits across from her, unconsciously intent upon hearing her answer. She's naturally a much more open person than he is, and he finds himself intrigued at the little bits of her life that she shares with him each time they find themselves spending time together, however brief a period it may be. While he hasn't completely reciprocated the gesture, she is definitely privy to more than any other girl he's met since. . .well, _ever_.

He makes a mental note _never_ to mention this to Ross. At least not just yet.

"For all the events my mom has organized, I've never actually _been_ to any of them - with the exception of the other night," Gwen reveals slowly. "I donate to the organizations I believe in already. I don't really feel like I need to attend parties to prove it. My dressing up isn't going to help anyone."

_Unless you're wearing the right costume_, Blake thinks, his mouth pulling down into an appreciative shrug.

"Which organizations?" He asks after a moment.

"Women's shelters and orphanages," Gwen replies. A wistful smile crosses her face. "When Mary took me to church on Sundays, we'd always stop by this one place after. . ." She shakes her head, as if to pull herself from the nostalgic memory. "I receive a monthly allowance from my parents, until I come of age. I started donating years ago."

Blake shifts in his seat, fighting a certain feeling that bubbles up in his chest at her words. He shouldn't be caught off guard, though it's both encouraging and unsettling to meet another Gotham trust fund child with as a big a heart as the Wayne family.

The feeling is something like admiration, only stronger. Strong enough to leave him at a loss for words on more than one occasion.

Blake clears his throat, and keeps his cool expression in place as best he can, though by the intrigued look on Gwen's face, he's probably not doing a very good job of it.

"What happens when you come of age?" Blake asks.

Gwen looks almost let down by the professional nature of the question. He considers telling her that he came from one of the possible orphanages that he donates to, but decides against it.

"I become my parents' legal proxy, should the worst happen. Allowance increases and an internship in my father's company opens up. Dad. . .likes to keep things in the family," Gwen answers hesitantly. There's a slight bitterness in the last part of her statement.

There's his opening - he can question her about her father, his business connections, and his involvement with Stryver. But instead, with her in her evening attire and him in his uniform, he decides to let the moment just settle between them comfortably. They talk a little more, about the cat and how it's a possibility she might be there tonight. After all, it'll be another opportunity where many of Gotham's wealthiest are all gathered with an abundance of champagne and good food.

When the time comes, they leave and walk to his car - his off duty vehicle - and he drives her out of the city to the foothills where Wayne manor resides. The front is adorned with sheer, silk tents and stylish, glowing lanterns; a multitude of people gathering in and around the tents. He pulls off to the side, walks around the front of the car and holds the door for her.

The smile she gives him makes him nervous. "Will I see you later?" It's posed as a question, entirely up to him whether or not he'll acquiesce.

For once, Blake returns her smile, even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah. Gimme a call when you're all finished up here," he offers.

As he's pulling away from Wayne manor, he watches her slender, gowned form retreating towards the warmth of the party. Gravel crunches under his tires as he turns onto the main road when it hits him.

Blake has always been a very self aware person, prided himself on this fact. Self aware, if temperamental at times. What can he say? He can't stand incompetence or just standing around, waiting for something to happen. Waiting is useless in his mind.

And so, he finds himself questioning how much longer he'll wait before he does something himself, consequences be damned.

X X X

The decadence put on by the Wayne Foundation is truly something to be taken note of, Miranda decides. Perhaps it is because she was born in the pit of the world, and that a mere fire for the purposes of survival was what she considered _rich_ as a child. As she observes all the carelessly laughing faces around her, she shudders inwardly with well-concealed disdain.

She wants to snatch out from under them each of their pointlessly crafted lives and shove them down their throats, watch them choke on the excess until they're _drowning_ in it.

"You're tense," a voice next to her hums quietly.

Miranda is snapped from her thoughts, and looks to her companion, her last surviving family member since her father's untimely death.

_No, not death_, she reminds herself bitterly. _His murder._

"Is it that obvious?" Miranda asks the woman next to her.

The woman - Anna to the world, and Isabel to those who hold her dear - smiles guilelessly, eyes unfocused on some distant point that she cannot see. Her dark hair is gathered at the base of her skull, tumbling down her back in natural curls - a family trait, Miranda notes, proud. For all the poverty they grew up in, they always had their beauty, one of many weapons. They share similar features, but where Miranda's eyes are a honeyed brown, her cousin's are an iridescent blue; slightly glazed over, unseeing. Her skin is light and creamy, unmarred except for a few freckles along her cheekbones.

Isabel clutches her white cane in one hand and threads her other arm through Miranda's.

"We are one of them, are we not, cousin?" Isabel whispers, leaning into Miranda's shoulder. "At least, that is who we are pretending to be today." Her accent is less noticeable than Miranda's, more ethereal.

"For longer than today," Miranda returns quietly, conspiratorially, a humorless smile on her face. She knows Isabel will hear it in her voice. "As long as it takes for him to finish his work beneath the city. . ."

Isabel's body tenses ever so slightly and, had Miranda not known her since she was a child, she would have missed it. She believes in avenging her uncle's death, but her methods have always been more peaceful than that of her combative cousin. It hasn't been a problem; her pacifist ways have yet to leave a troublesome impression on Bane. He will still tear down this wretched city with his bare hands, but Miranda wonders how long their protector can walk that precarious line.

If she suspects even a _hint_ that Bane will not be able to manage, she's knows what must be done, what will become necessary.

It saddens her, the thought of having to part with her last surviving flesh and blood. . .but not as much as her father's murder.

A tapping of a microphone draws her attention towards the pedestal located at the head of the party, and she watches, with the eyes of a panther stalking its prey, as the mayor takes the stand and speaks.

X X X

She slinks up the eastern staircase, tray in hand and plan in mind. The anticipation skitters along her senses. Selina always feels the same rush every time she's on the verge of executing a job. The container of graphite and print dust is secure in the pocket of her black dress - a maid's uniform, with the white inserts she fashioned together earlier. Now, all she needs is to get to the safe. This time, she'll complete the job.

Leaving the dinner tray on the hallway center table, she slides between the doors that lead to the drawing room, eyes searching every dark corner before she ventures further in.

Silence. Complete and utter silence.

Selina revels in the eerie peace of the long room, furnishings draped over with white sheets, forgotten. She moves forward towards the mahogany dresser, her maid's heels tapping softly along the floors. Breathing in deeply through her nose, she takes in the must of hundred year old wood and. . .some other scent she can't quite place.

She traces her finger along the edge of a silver picture frame. A woman smiles without showing teeth, eyes glancing off to the side as if chasing some errant thought.

Even Selina has to admit she's beautiful, if a little lost-looking. The late Rachel Dawes, former ADA, girlfriend of the reverent Harvey Dent, captor of the heart of Bruce Wayne. It never quite made sense to her, how the masked vigilante could choose the greater good over saving a damsel, and then turn around and murder Dent.

She makes quick work of applying the graphite mix to the keypad on the safe, smiling silently in triumph as she lifts a perfect print of each of Bruce Wayne's fingers. It doesn't take long to surmise the code - his mother and father's wedding anniversary. Another devilish smile crosses her face as she sees what lay inside.

The pearls rest coolly on her collarbone, and she runs her fingertips, almost reverently, along their smooth surfaces.

No one ever bought _her_ pearls.

Shaking off the sudden bitterness, she glides over to where a bulls eye rests on an easel. An odd piece of decor for an eccentric man like Wayne, but she excuses it, her fingers tracing the outline of the centric red boundary.

The arrow whisks in out of nowhere, centimeters from her fingers where it buries itself into the target.

Before she can even think, she falls into the role of the scared, hapless maid and yelps, a hand coming to her mouth as she turns around to identify attacker.

And there stands Bruce Wayne, crossbow drawn at the ready.

She debates whether or not to keep up the act, curious as to what his reaction would be. The calculating look he givers her, however, as he lowers the bow and sets it down change her mind.

"You're a pretty good shot for a billionaire," she comments lightly, remaining by the target. "I'm a little disappointed," she motions to the large expanse of the room, "I was expecting scars and claws and mason jars. I'll spare you the details."

He grimaces, leaning on his cane. "Is that what they're saying about me these days?"

She gives him a smile, ignoring the twinge of regret she feels at the troubled look on his face. He really does look like a tortured soul, despite all the cushion his money provides.

"People will say what they want, especially when you're not there to defend yourself," she advises him as if he's her pupil.

He makes an _ah_ sound, nodding. "You've been planning this since the park," he surmises.

"More or less," Selina concedes, smiling. "It was surprisingly easy to land a serving gig tonight. You really should check up on your security."

She sees his jaw clench slightly, eyes flicking down to where the pearls rest around her neck, and then to the slightly ajar door in the dresser.

"That's a beautiful necklace," he tells her, slowly, like a cat; she smirks to herself at the pun. "It reminds me of one that belonged to my mother. . .are they one in the same?" He asks.

Selina's eyes dart to the photo of the late Thomas and Martha Wayne, the latter of which is wearing the very same pearls that adorn her neck at the moment. A slow, languorous smile spreads across her lipsticked lips as Bruce limps slowly over to the dress, pushing open the door that conceals the safe.

The _empty_ safe, thanks to her.

"The manufacturer _clearly_ told me this safe was uncrackable," Bruce says, eyes back on Selina.

Selina lets out a soundless laugh, shaking her head. _Uncrackable_, she mulls the word over. How she loves words that leave no room for error, which she then creates on sheer force of will alone. It's what makes her so good, so street smart after all these years.

_Mama would be proud_, she deems.

"Oops," she utters. "Nobody told me it was. . ._uncrackable_." She whispers the last word as if speaking to a lover, and smiles triumphantly when she sees a spark of amusement in the otherwise grim expression on Bruce Wayne's face.

Ever the gentleman defending his mother's honor, he chastises her. "I'm afraid I can't let you take those."

_Please_, Selina thinks. "Look. Somebody had to wipe the dust of these sooner or later," she tells him. "I'm doing you a favor, really."

He lifts an eyebrow, leaning on his cane again for support. "Immersing yourself in present danger is just as dangerous as living in the past."

Selina almost finds it endearing, him giving her advice in the midst of her robbing him. It's poetic, really - he comes off as a gentleman without fault, but she's none too many like him. Bruce Wayne is no exception.

Rolling her eyes, she walks towards him with purposeful steps. He tenses, just like he did at the park. "So says the recluse," she returns, sarcastic. "Am I in danger? I don't believe _you'd_ hurt a woman, anymore than _I'd_ hurt a cripple. . ."

A wicked thought strikes her, and she kicks the cane out from grasp. "Of course, exceptions have to be made!" she chirpss, holding her hands up as if to say_ oh well_.

She turns to the half open window and hikes herself up onto its ledge with ease. She closes her legs and swivels to the side - a lady thief must maintain her virtue, of course - and smiles down at him. She thinks she catches a glimpse of wonder in his eyes before it's quickly replaced with irritation. She must have imagined it.

"Always a pleasure, Mr. Wayne."

X X X

Gwen leaves the sounds of chatter and violins behind and makes her way along the gravel path that wraps around the estate. The night air is surprisingly balmy, the shift from spring to summer official. She holds her wrap closer about her shoulders, letting her mind drift as she hears nothing but the crunching of gravel beneath her slippers.

She steps around a town car, a man slipping into the backseat, before continuing on her way down the path. She's contemplating calling Blake when she a second set of footsteps catches her attention.

A woman brushes past her in a form fitting black dress and heels, the glow from the lanterns reflecting off a string of pearls around her neck. Gwen thinks to herself how her mother owns a similar necklace. Her gaze follows the woman's retreating back as she approaches the town car and whips open the back door.

The woman looks over her shoulder at Gwen suddenly, and she feels her stomach drop. She's not certain how she knows, but she does. It's a gut feeling she can't ignore. Gotham's most wanted jewel thief, not in leather but in evening wear, flashes her an all-knowing smile and winks.

The cat blows a kiss to her before disappearing into the car and riding off into the night.


	8. Always know the difference

Ack, caught the flu this week. Leave it to me to get a summer cold. This chapter's a little more somber than the others, nothing too bad. Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! You guys continue to be awesome :) Not a lot of action in this chapter, but there will be in the next few. Things are stirring up.

And Keller, that is a wonderful way to think of it - thank you for your kind words.

X X X

Bravura

_"Always know the difference between sympathy and pity."_

X X X

Gwen picks up the folds of her dress in a fist and jogs back to where the tents are. She's winding through the milling crowd surrounding the podium, drawing closer to her table, when she has to stop short of almost colliding with another party guest.

"I'm sorry," she says automatically, collecting herself. She looks up, recognizing the woman from her father's acquaintance. There's a calculating look hidden behind soft, hazel eyes; flawless olive skin, dark, curling hair and a charming half-smile that holds a secret. Her companion, also striking, stands only a few inches shorter, closer to Gwen's height.

"No need to apologize," the woman says pleasantly. "We were on our way out," she pauses. "I don't believe we've met," she tells her.

Despite her impatience, Gwen catches the implied request, and acquiesces. "Gwen Gallo," she introduces herself. Her eyes flick to her table, where her phone is, then back to the woman. "Ms. Tate, you work with my father?"

The woman's eyes light up at her recognition. "Indirectly, yes. He speaks very highly of you. My cousin, Anna," she indicates the woman beside her with an elegant tilt of her head.

Gwen looks to the long, dark-haired woman, gaze lingering on the white cane held at her side. "A pleasure," she nods.

"For us as well," Anna smiles, her light, blue eyes gazing past Gwen.

She bids the Tates goodbye and walks quickly back to her table, fighting the ghost of a chill that travels up her spine at Miranda's words. She knows being an only child leaves much room for her parents to shower praise on her for the things she has down that they _do _approve of. However, she can't help but feel her father has done more than his fair share of making her ears burn lately. People she barely recalls seem to know very much about her.

Blake answers on the third ring, voice surprisingly light.

"Hey, I'm still on patrol-" he begins, but she doesn't give him a chance to finish.

"The cat was here," Gwen says quietly, conscious of the people around her.

"Guess she just couldn't stay away," Blake replies dryly. "We'll be there in ten. Are you okay? Did she ID you?"

"Pretty sure," Gwen nods. She runs a hand trough her hair, letting out a shaky breath. "She blew me a kiss goodbye before she got into a car."

There's a pause, and then he asks, "And you're. . .okay? She didn't try anything?" The concern is clear in his tone.

Gwen finds herself smiling, despite the situation. "Yeah, I'm fine. She walked right past me," she tells him, an old, familiar feeling spreading through her chest at his words.

X X X

"Dispatch, this is one-echo-two-four requesting a BOLO for a black town car," Blake speaks into the radio.

He's sitting half in, half out of the car, the driver side door open. Gwen is standing beside the car, Blake's jacket around her shoulders, Ross watching the both of them carefully.

"Last two plate numbers: eight, five," Blake relates.

"I'm sorry I couldn't remember more," Gwen tells him after he's hooked the radio back up to the terminal.

Ross sees a rare half-smile cross Blake's face as he shrugs off her comment. "Two digits are better than nothing."

The hesitant, answering smile on the girl's face is almost enough to make Ross smack himself between the eyes. He knows his partner has been playing babysitter to the Gallo girl for a couple weeks now, but this is the first time he's seen the two of them together since he cut their late night interview short and drove the girl home.

It's curious to watch Blake, normally either stoic or enraged (he doesn't seem to have an in between, Ross notes) smile at a girl, and a cute one at that. Though he's never voiced it, Ross always worries that Blake will be consumed by the job, body and soul. He doesn't have his parents - only the priest who looked after him - or siblings or anyone he's let get remotely close to him. It probably comes with the territory, of having everything you love - and some things you don't - ripped from you when you're just a kid.

Still, Ross hopes. He supposes that's his wife rubbing off on him, becoming a bit of a sap compared to his usual dry, sarcastic to things. Their marriage isn't perfect and she drives him nuts half the time, but he has someone to come home to and share his burdens with.

His partner doesn't have that, and Ross always wonders if it'll put the kid in an early grave. You can survive, going at it alone your whole life, but that's not living in Ross' eyes.

He clears his throat, effectively drawing their attention away from the other. "Let's get a head count of the remaining guests," he says. "Might help narrow down our would-be victim list, should the cat decide to make that leap."

Blake nods, straightening a little. "No pun intended?" He quips, a trace of a smirk on his face.

Ross rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah," he mutters. He moves to leave, calling over his shoulder. "Don't take too long saying goodbye, Blake. I love talking these people as much as you do. No offense, Gwen."

Because he's walking away from them, he doesn't see the blush coloring the girl's cheeks, or the telling way in which his partner shifts his weight from foot to foot, anxious.

X X X

After leaving a unit at Wayne manor to keep an eye on the premises and making sure Gwen gets home safely, Blake seeks out the one man that puzzles him even more than the enigmatic owner of the property he just left: the police commissioner.

By all the definitions, the man is a hero in Blake's eyes. He was one of the few cops on the straight and narrow no matter how ugly things got. A few months back, Blake heard around the precinct that his wife left him, taking their two kids with her. The job, like a lot of people in law enforcement, is all they have left after they've been in it for a good long while.

It leaves Blake with an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. Gordon is a loner. He's a team player, sure, but he goes home to an empty house. The job is all he has now. It strikes Blake, the similarities between Gordon and Wayne, both men on a near incorruptible path of justice. Wayne wore a mask and Gordon was on the front lines, target on his back.

The question burns at him again - what exactly happened the night of Dent's death. Like a child clinging to fairytales, Blake doesn't want to surrender his idealistic image of the dark knight, no matter what the rest of the city and the world says.

He pushes open the roof access door, and spots one of the two men who could give him answers standing near the ledge of the roof, a police report in his hands.

"Sir," he calls ahead, and Gordon looks up, eyes sharp over the rim of his glasses. "Congressman Gilly's wife has been calling," Blake reports. "Apparently he never made it home after the Wayne foundation event."

A quick, rueful smile cross the older man's face as he nods to Blake. "That sounds like a job for the police," he replies.

Blake smiles, and an idea strikes him. "When you and Dent cleaned up the streets," he says, "You cleaned 'em good." The effect is almost immediate; Gordon's shoulders stiffen, hands stilling over the report his gaze is on. Something's off. "Pretty soon. . .we'll be chasing down overdue library books."

Gordon looks up, that same rueful smile in place, and closes up his report. Blake straightens, knowing he's got the commissioner's attention now. Meeting the man for the first time, Blake can't help but thinking how tired he looks. How restless. His gaze flicks to the dilapidated bat signal, rusted and forgotten after years of lack of use.

He pauses, eyes on Gordon. "And yet," he ventures, taking a step toward the man, "Here you are, like. . .we're still at war."

Gordon walks up to him, head tilted to the side. Blake _definitely_ has his attention now. He supposes that was his original intention. "What's your name, son?"

The young cop straightens again. "Blake, sir," he answers the man.

Gordon looks him up and down, scrutinizing but not unkind. "You got something you want to ask me, Officer Blake?"

It's difficult to quash his desire to ask Gordon everything that's been slowly wearing down the edges of his curiosity all these years, but Blake's going to give it his best.

"It's about that night, _this_ night eight years ago." Blake remembers the crushing feeling he felt in his chest when the commissioner went on TV and announced to the world Batman's betrayal. "The night Dent died," Blake continues. "The last confirmed sighting of the Batman. He murders those people. . ." Blake bites back another comment, clamping down on his years-old feelings on the matter. "Takes down two SWAT teams, breaks Dent's _neck_ and, then just. . .vanishes."

Gordon doesn't hesitate. "I'm not hearing a question, son," he reiterates.

Blake's voice is quieter when he replies, thinking of Wayne and all the sacrifices both heroes have made for the city. "Don't you want to know who he was?" he asks.

_Not just _what_ he was_, he thinks. Blake's known for years, but by the way in which Gordon sighs and shakes his head, he's almost certain the commissioner doesn't know. The butler does, sure, but beyond that man, it doesn't seem Wayne trusts very many people anymore.

"I know _exactly_ who he was," Gordon sighs, eyes going to the rusted bat signal. He slaps the side of the signal gently, as if clapping the shoulder of a former friend and shakes his head. "He was the Batman."

_Only half the equation_, Blake thinks, but doesn't say anything, closing his mouth into a thin line.

Gordon walks past him, sighing again. "Let's go see about the congressman's wife. Do we have any leads?"

Blake turns to follow the man, torn between disappointment and that familiar sense of anticipation. "Not yet. We put out a BOLO, but - there was another sighting of the jewel thief at the party. Could be our possible kidnapper."

Gordon arches an eyebrow, holding the door open for Blake. "Not really her style, is it?"

He concedes that's true, stepping past Gordon. "Maybe she needed a quick getaway."

The commissioner nods, thinking, as the two men head towards the elevator. "Who reported seeing her?"

Blake hesitates, though not meaning to. "A guest at the party, sir," he replies.

The man arches one, bushy eyebrow at the younger cop, keenly observant for all the lines on his face would have you believe he's an exhausted old man. "Name?" He questions.

"A Gwen Gallo, sir," Blake answers evenly, careful to keep his face blank.

"Gallo," the man repeats, rolling the name over in his mind. "There was a shooting a few weeks ago, wasn't there? Gallo was the name on the report."

Blake nods, impressed at the man's recall. "The cat burglar was there that night, too," he adds, knowing it'll catch the commissioner's attention and relieved that he sees the same connection Blake made earlier. "Robbing the top floor."

Gordon lets out a whistle through is lips, nodding. "Well, then. This night just got a whole lot more interesting," he says.

X X X

Early morning light has just begun to drift through the trees surrounding the cemetery when Bruce arrives. It's cold and crisp out, despite balmy weather of the night before. Usually, he and Alfred visit her together, but today, Bruce needs the time alone. His revelation about going to Italy once a year in hopes that Bruce had rebuilt his life still gnaws at his insides. He can't fathom how Alfred still holds out for hope that he will be able to move on from the one person he vested all of his hopes and dreams in.

And maybe that's the problem, Bruce reflects. He walks along a few grave sites - cracked, grey marble with weathered lettering - and continues on to where he knows she's buried. Perhaps it was her familiarity, the fact that he grew up with her, learned with her, made mistakes by her side, that made it so easy for her to earn a place in his closed-off heart.

He comes to her gravestone, and immediately feels the age-old pain constricting around his heart. It's such a familiar ache, one that he clings to and abhors at once. He knows his heart must still beat within his chest, because certainly the dead don't feel this much pain. And yet, he's not quite living, either. Alfred is right about that.

He's trapped between thinking he should move, and being too afraid to let go of her. If he lets go, who will he hold on to?

_Rachel Elizabeth Dawes  
__Loving Daughter and Friend_

A bouquet of white lilies rests just to the left of the white marble marking. Ffom her mother, Bruce guesses. The woman hasn't spoken to him in almost a decade, just as lost in her own grief as Bruce is. He kneels, placing his own bouquet next to the lilies: a collection of white, yellow and red gladioli. There's a patch of the flowers that grow near the well on his property, and they were always her favorite.

Bruce ducks his head, leaning forward to trace the engraving of her name. "We had the old man on our side," he tells her softly. "I think he's the only one who knows how much you meant to me."

He pictures her standing her, by her tombstone, staring down at him with her wide eyes and sad smile. She says nothing in return, only looks at him.

"How much you _mean_ to me," Bruce corrects himself, at first not aware that he slipped into the past tense. "You told me once that this," he gestures weakly to his face, "was my true mask. I didn't want to believe you at first. I didn't want to admit that going out there, making those men pay for their crimes. . .that _that's_ the only thing that brought me some measure of peace, besides being near you."

He feels his throat constrict, the emotion in his chest clawing its way up his throat. He screws his eyes shut, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead to stay the oncoming headache he can feel bloom between his ears. His surroundings are quiet, saving for the distant dawn chorus of chirping.

"I know you didn't understand why I _needed_ to. . .do what I did. You couldn't understand," he utters quietly. He looks up again, and sees his Rachel move from her standing position by the grave marking to stand before him, hands clasped together in front of her, a sorrowful look on her face.

"Sometimes I'm glad you couldn't," Bruce confesses. "All the anger and rage and pain. I didn't want you to be a part of that. You were untouched by it." He reaches out, traces a finger along what he imagines would be the edges of a beautiful black dress she's wearing, the kind she wore the night he saved her from falling to her death.

"You weren't supposed to be a part of my _other_ world," he says quietly, voice broken. "But I wonder sometimes if that's what got you killed. I couldn't protect you. But I didn't prepare you for it, either."

Movement catches his eye, and he looks up to see his image of Rachel slowly shaking her head. She kneels before him, placing a hand on his face. His eyes flutter closed, and he breathes in, trying to recall her scent after so many years, but to no avail. He's forgotten that as well.

"I'm sorry, Rachel," Bruce says, a sob cracking his sentence in half. "I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm sorry."

X X X

Having made her living off of the cheating and spying of others, there is very little that will evoke guilt within Selina Kyle. She hardened herself against conflicting emotions like that the first time she was arrested and thrown to the dogs in juvenile hall at the ripe age of fifteen.

When she originally made up her mind to follow Bruce Wayne to Gotham's cemetery, she told herself it's because she needed to familiarize herself more with her latest target. That, should the occasion call for it, she'll be ready to anticipate any move he could possibly make. She'll know his strengths and his weaknesses, what the most vulnerable button is she can push to give herself the utmost advantage.

She told herself this before she left, discreetly tailing his town car in a taxi.

But now, standing there behind an oak tree, one hand on the bark, her gaze becomes blurry as she swipes away angrily at a tear silently rolling down her face.

Bruce Wayne, once incorrigible and dashing, perhaps a little eccentric, is kneeling like a broken man at the grave of the woman he once loved. Perhaps even still loves. Selina's almost certain she never thought she'd be able to relate to the man, but his speech, however awkward and unplanned, yanks at a heart string she thought cut loose long ago.

It reminds Selina of her parents, as much as she fights against drawing the comparison. Her mother was a beautiful woman, beautiful in the way the old movie stars of the silver screen. This isn't just Selina's biased opinion, but one that many of the men her mother conned, before and after they realized the scam was on.

Maria Kyle had her own demons, of course. And addictions. She kept most of them from Selina for as long as possible, until she came home one day from school to find the police and her sobbing father waiting for her. Things become a blur soon after that in her memory. There were the nights Selina spent taking off her father's shoes and tucking him in to bed. The nights she'd scrub the carpet raw until she couldn't see his throw up stains anymore. The nights she'd come home and her father wasn't there at all, out at some bar, drinking himself into a stupor.

She learned survival before she learned the joy of living, and it's what has kept her going all these years. She didn't have a caring butler to take her hand after her father drowned in his own vomit, or a plush trust fund to make sure the bills were paid at the end of every month.

Slowly, out of the pity she feels, her anger rises and she sets her jaw, eyes narrowing slightly as she continues to study Wayne. She refuses to succumb like her parents did, like she's watching him do just _that_ in the cemetery.

Selina turns away, leaving Wayne to his pain in silence. She gathers all of her anger and sadness into a little box. She locks it, and throws away the key, pulling her coat tighter around her to keep out Gotham's morning chill.

X X X

The church bell tolls eleven times as Gwen pulls away from the curb in Mikey's borrowed car. She heads to old town and the women's shelter she's visited the last few months. When she was old enough to understand such things, Mary had taken her to homeless shelters to volunteer. It had been Gwen's idea to visit a women's shelter and, though initially resistant, Mary had acquiesced and taken her young charge to St. Matthew's.

Gwen visits often now that she's home from school, both to give her donation check and to volunteer.

When she arrives, she's greeted by one of the counselors, an older woman with gray-streaked dark hair and sharp eyes. At first, her demeanor frightened the teenage Gwen, but over the years, she has come to respect the woman and all she does for her patients.

"Hi Andie," she addresses the counselor. She takes note of the woman's hair, haphazardly pulled back into a bun and shortness of breath. "Is everything alright?" Gwen looks around the front room, a few women seated in waiting chairs, the receptionist behind the glass on the phone.

"Things have been better," Andie says, a short laugh escaping her. "I'm running behind schedule."

"Anything I can help with?" Gwen offers, moving to sit as Andie collapses into one of the waiting room chairs.

The woman scrubs a hand over her face, gaze distracted for a moment as she takes in Gwen's somewhat dressy appearance. "Did you just come from church?"

Gwen looks down at her coral-colored dress and leggings. She usually goes home and changes first. "Yeah, Bethel over on 82nd."

Andie gives her a look. "You're a Protestant," she says flatly. Gwen opens her mouth to say something, but the woman waves her off, half-smiling. "Doesn't matter. You're still a Christian. I forgive you."

"Thanks," Gwen says, fighting a smile herself. Andie has always been direct with her, but no less warm when the occasion calls for it.

"I need a favor," Andie tells her, serious again. "A woman - who am I kidding? a girl, she's just a _girl_ - came here a few weeks ago. She has a five-year-old son, but the state sent him away while she recovers."

Gwen can't stop herself from flinching at the term "recover." She's seen some very tough cases come through Andie's door in her time of volunteering, and can only imagine what must have happened to this girl if she needs several _weeks_ to heal.

"Where's he staying?" Gwen asks, anticipating Andie's favor.

"St. Swithin's," Andie replies. "You know it? It's on Howard, closer to midtown. I was supposed to visit the boy today, but we're short staffed. As always. Think you could go talk to him for me? The priest over there says he's been asking for her every day and I don't think a phone call is going to be enough for the boy." The last part of her statement is said with a distinct note of sadness, and Gwen doesn't miss it.

Humility is one inescapable quality Gwen has gleaned over her years of volunteering. Her parents are no saints, but parents come in all shapes and sizes. Not every kid is as lucky as she was, dysfunction included.

"I've never worked with someone so young," Gwen admits, looking down. She has many questions regarding the situation, but the less she knows, the less the little boy may be able to sense from her. It'll be for the better, for now.

Andie gives her a sad smile, patting her on the knee. "Just let him know his mom's doing alright," she tells her, "and that she's thinking of him."

X X X

Blake takes the stairs up to the rooftop playground two at a time, desperately trying to figure out what he's going to tell Jimmy's little brother. He knows there's no right thing to say, of course, but having been on the receiving end of this kind of conversation before, Blake feels it's a duty that he get it right.

He pushes open the door to the roof, and steps out onto the fenced-in playground. A few boys are hanging from the monkey bars. They wave with one hand at Blake, and he gives them a nod and a quick smile, recognizing the twin seven-year-olds. He makes his way over to the small basketball court, spotting Mark's dark hair and tiny, skinny body among the larger boys scrimmaging each other and calls out to him.

The boys stop playing, their actions stilling as Blake walks up to Mark. The boy seems to shrink before him, as if sensing the reason for his visit. A uniformed cop has never meant anything good for those who have ended up at the orphanage. Cops bring bad news, tragedy and pain. And this time, unfortunately, Blake is not the exception.

"Can we talk, buddy?" Blake asks quietly.

Mark's head dips down and he nods, turning around to climb up the bleachers. Blake settles in next to him, feeling the weight of what he has to say settle onto his shoulders like bricks.

The young boy surprises him, taking the news in stride as silent tears roll down his cheeks. Jimmy left weeks ago on the promise of work - paid work - in the sewers underneath the city, and had told his brother that he would come back for him when he could. Mark, the more sensible of the two, despite being younger, had accepted the sad reality that he would never see his brother again.

It never fails to amaze Blake at how resilient kids can be, and it's this small thought that gives him hope Mark and the rest of the boys can be as lucky as he was to age out and _not_ end up on the streets.

He makes a mental note to look into the recent lack of funding for St. Swithin's, as well as the rumors surrounding the sewers.

Leaving Mark with the other boys on the roof, Blake heads back down the stairs to find Riley again. He passes the sleeping quarters and almost walks by the art room, but pauses when a familiar shock of bright, auburn hair catches his attention. He stills, standing off to the side of the doorway and watches the quiet scene before him.

"I think she'd like it if you drew her something," Gwen says warmly.

He can see her profile, sitting at a faded yellow table made for elementary school-aged children, a little boy next to her in a blue plastic chair. He's playing with a red crayon in his hands, tossing it back and forth, not meeting her eyes.

"She prolly won't even look at it," he mumbles. "She couldn't open her eyes when they took her away. They were all purple."

Blake sees Gwen's eyes widen and begin to shine in the fluorescent lighting of the room. The moment passes, and she regains control, nudging the boy on the shoulder lightly as she ventures a small smile.

He expects her to say something placating to the kid, something cookie cutter and comforting like _it'll be okay_ or _you'll get to see your mom soon_. That's all Blake was ever told after his father was killed, and the empty promises cut deeper than the realization that he'd never see his dad again.

Instead, what she says isn't a promise or pity.

"We all heal, Morgan. Andie said she's doing much better," she tells him softly. "And I'm sure your mom would love to see anything you drew." The little boy - Morgan - looks up with only his eyes through white blonde curls, still skeptical. "What color are her eyes normally?" Gwen asks.

Morgan bites his lower lip, pausing. "Green," he mumbles, eyes downcast again.

"Same color as yours," Gwen tells him, smiling. Morgan's face softens a little at the comparison, and he nods. "Why don't you draw a picture of you and her. In your favorite place," she suggests. "Green eyes and all."

Morgan looks down at the red crayon in his hand, deciding. After a moment, he puts the crayon back in the tray in the center of the table and pulls out a yellow one.

"She has yellow hair, too," Morgan informs Gwen quietly, pressing the crayon to the white sheet of paper in front of him.

"So_ that's_ where you get all your good looks from," Gwen teases gently.

Blake smiles unconsciously at her comment and, though his eyes remain on the paper, a true, hesitant smile spreads across the boy's face as he continues to draw.

Though this is the last place he expected to find her, he can't help thinking she seems completely at ease in her surroundings. Normally, he'd balk at the thought of an outsider coming into his orphanage (with few exceptions, Ross being one of them). But his usual defensiveness is oddly. . .absent at the moment. He'll have to figure _that_ out later.

The smiles Gwen flashes at the little boy are wide and bright, eyes sparkling like he hasn't seen before. He likes them more and more each time he sees her.

She looks up then, Morgan too, and her head tilts to the side in slight confusion as she raises a hand to wave once at him, a half-smile on her face. Blake doesn't say anything right away, too distracted that he's been caught staring. It's the little boy who breaks the silence.

He nudges Gwen with his elbow, yellow crayon still clutched in his fingers. "That's John Blake," he tells her. "Kind of like our guardian angel. Well," he pauses, tiny face scrunching in contemplation. "That's what the other boys tell me."

Gwen laughs softly, and pats Morgan on the shoulder as she stands, pushing her tiny chair in. She walks over to Blake, who's leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.

"Guardian angel, huh," she echoes, glancing over her shoulder at Morgan and then back to him. She tilts her head again, a smile at the corner of her mouth. "It suits you."

Blake's gaze flicks to the boy, and back to Gwen, noting that she's dressed in probably what's her Sunday best (another dress she looks nice in). He clears his throat, and shrugs. That's probably the third time he's had that thought since he caught sight of her in the art room.

He doesn't quite smile, but it's in his eyes as he says, "It's just my part time gig."


	9. The brightest flames

I had so much fun writing a twist on the ball scene. BatCat is so much more gutsy than Gwen and Blake - though it won't _always_ be that way - it's a nice change of pace. Also, I debated on which saying to include at the beginning of this chapter, let me know what you think. Explanations for the chapter titles will be coming up soon.

Thank you again for the continued reviews and PMs and support! It's truly the best to read all your feedback, and I do take it into account as this little story morphs from the outline I originally had planned. Another long chapter here, and things are heating up!

X X X

Bravura

_"The brightest flames leave the deepest of scars."_

X X X

She hears the tell-tale hissing of his mask first, his heavy footfalls surprisingly silent on the hardwood floors of her apartment. Her hands still above her cooking ministrations, the light popping sound of boiling water alerting her to remove the pot from the heat. She reaches out tentatively and feels his presence move up behind her, his musky scent mixed with smoke filling her senses.

His large hand wraps around her own, smaller one and guides her successfully to the handle of the pot. She feels a tingling at the back of her neck, an immediate physical reaction only he can evoke from her, and pushes it aside, trying to ignore it.

"Thank you," Isabel murmurs, gripping the handle and lifting the pot to hover over where she knows the sink is, a foot away, left of the stove. She traces the rim of the colander with one hand, and slowly pours the boiling water and pasta into it, steam hitting her face as the hot water hits the cold metal of the sink.

She feels him step back from her, his presence almost tangible in the air around her, and she lets go a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She imagines him leaning up against the center island, arms crossed over his chest, ever patient in her quiet presence.

His voice is raspy through the mask when he speaks. "I killed two men today," he tells her flatly, despite the lilt of his accent.

Of all the years she's known him, she's never quite been able to place it. He was thrown into the pit when he was still a teenager, a soldier caught up in a war of his country's making, not his own. The first time they met, her uncle was pulling him from hell, the stench of disease heavy around him. Bloodied wraps covered his face, save for his eyes, dark gray like the clouds just before a storm. She hasn't been able to see those eyes for several years now.

"I'm not your priest, Bane," she tells him quietly. She wraps her arms about herself, her appetite suddenly gone.

There is a deep, rumbling laugh, but to Isabel's ears, it is humorless. "Ah, but I beg to disagree," he returns, voice rolling over the words like a distant train. "She is my maker," Bane says, and Isabel doesn't need clarification. There is only one _she_ between them. "And you my angel of mercy."

It is a tempting picture he paints with his words, and though she finds herself smiling, Isabel doesn't feel it reach her eyes, and knows Bane will see this, too. He knows her face so well.

She hears him take two steps towards her, and is suddenly bombarded with his scent again. It makes her want to close her eyes, though she always sees darkness anyway, and lean into him. But she resists. She feels him run a hand through her hair that hangs down in front of her shoulders, twisting the long ends and letting them loose again.

"Are you ready?" Isabel all but whispers, closing her eyes as if that will shut out his scent, his presence from her mind.

She hears him sigh, disappointed, as he steps back again, putting space between them. "Yes," he says simply.

She turns and feels along the countertop, going to the edge of the kitchen and opening up the cabinet above the counter. Running her fingers along the braille labels of the many bottles and vials, she comes to the correct concoction, pulls it from the shelf and takes a sealed syringe package from a tray on the left.

When she turns around, she almost bumps into him he's so close, the steady mechanical hiss of his mask drifting down from above her. It makes her unsteady on her feet, but she forces herself not to show it in her face. She hands him the package, which he tears, while she grabs the large glass bottle of rubbing alcohol and a cotton swab from the shelf.

Isabel wets the cotton with alcohol, and traces up along his forearm and up his bicep to the thickest part of his arm, sterilizing the area. The shot goes in like a knife through butter, and she feels him exhale deeply as the effect of the heavy anesthetic mixture permeates through his system.

Slowly, she tip-toes up and reaches to unhook the three-way clasp behind at the base of his skull. Her fingers trace along the hard, angry scar tissue there. She peels back the thick straps of the mask from around his head and away from his cheek bones. The mask falls away slowly, and suddenly the hiss is gone, replaced with the slow rhythm of natural breathing.

"Better?" She asks gently. A hand comes down to rest on her shoulders, the other sliding down to rest at her lower back.

Bane leans down and whispers in her ear, voice rolling down her spine like thunder. "My angel of mercy."

X X X

During his rookie rotation, Blake was lucky enough never to pull the tunnels. He supposes his partner has something to do with that, looking out for him, and Blake's grateful. His gratitude, however, doesn't save him from the unmitigated stench of Gotham's sewer system. He retches, much to his dismay, as soon as he and Ross slide the manhole cover up and onto the concrete of the alleyway.

"Don't worry, princess," Ross deadpans, shining his flashlight down into the hole. "I won't tell Gwen."

Blake glares, half-hearted, as he unrolls the blueprints for the tunnels beneath their shoes. The first thing he did after leaving Bruce Wayne with his ghosts was pull every possible blueprint to the sewers underneath the city. Ross had looked at him like he was insane - there were a total of two hundred and seventy-three layouts of the city, but he had to start somewhere. Gordon had made it through the night, and whatever he had seen down there, whoever Bane was, Blake would get to the heart of it.

Even if he loses his lunch over it.

Ross goes down first, Blake after him, each lugging a twelve inch flashlight that illuminates several feet in front of them. The stench is worse the farther they go, Blake shining a light on the print in his hands. Pieces of rubble lay scattered here and there from the aftermath of the bomb the night before. Blake feels his hands twitch as he takes in the sight; three good men - men he wasn't personally acquainted with, but bore the burden of the shield all the same - are dead now, their funerals scheduled for later in the week.

"It's crossed your mind that this could be a bad idea, right?" Ross calls softly over his shoulder.

Blake nods, glancing down at the print. There's a three-way split a few yards up, and he pauses to study the possible paths. Two snake off and lead back towards the manhole entrance in a roundabout fashion, with off shoots that spread out in a web-like pattern. The third leads decidedly away from the other two paths; Blake's eyes flick to the edge of the paper, there the East River is noted. The drain where he found Jimmy.

He takes the lead, dimming his flashlight and Ross follows suit. They continue in near darkness for a few quiet minutes, the only sounds coming from their quiet, measured breathing.

A familiar beeping shatters the silence, and Blake whips around, alert. When he realizes the source of the noise, he relaxes his stance, hand moving away from his holstered weapon.

"Shit," Ross mutters, pulling his phone from his pocket. "I thought I'd silenced it."

"Trying to get us killed?" Blake says, sarcastic. He rolls up the blueprint, stuffing it in his back pocket.

Ross' eyes widen as he looks at the screen. "It's Grace," he tells him and, suddenly, he looks torn between answering the call and throwing the device as far away from him as possible.

It takes a second for it to register with Blake, and then he's rolling his eyes. "You kidding me. Right _now?_" He asks, slightly annoyed. Only slightly, because he knows Grace'll cuff him over the head if it's anymore than that. "Can't they give her something to hold it off?"

His partner's looking at him with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. "You have _so_ much to learn about women, Blake," he tells.

Blake shakes his head, looking over his shoulder; they're just a few yards away from the split in the tunnel. He's itching to keep going, something in his gut pulling at him to continue on. He thinks of Jimmy, cold lifeless. Gordon, gasping for breath, blood bubbling up onto his chin.

"You go," Blake tells his partner, pulling out the blueprint again. "I gotta see where this leads."

Ross looks wary, concern clear on his face. "I don't like the sound of that."

Blake doesn't like it, either. Gordon was taken and nearly shot to death in the very same tunnel he's about to follow, and now Blake's doing the same. He tries to rationalize it, however, telling himself he'll turn around at the first sign of a live body or silent radio for back up and get the hell out before anything goes south.

"I'll be fine, man," Blake tries to reassure his partner. He conjures up one of his practiced smiles to assuage him even further. "Go be a dad. Make me proud."

There's a brief flicker of pride in Ross' eyes, but it's gone in the next second. He nods, curt, and motions towards the tunnel behind Blake.

"You call for back up if you see _any_thing," he urges. It's the same voice Ross used when he first took Blake under his wing. "Don't do anything stupid."

"Yes, Dad," Blake mutters, though he appreciates the sentiment on his partner's part. He turns to leave, and is stopped by Ross' voice once more.

"Don't be a hero, Blake," he warns. "This city can't afford to lose anymore of its blue."

The words roll over in Blake's mind, keeping him company, as he continues to trudge down the tunnel, flashlight in one hand, gun drawn in the other. No sense in not being prepared. He was one of the sharpest shooters in his academy class, possessing the quickest reflexes. It's partly talent, he figures, but knows it compensates for him not being the biggest guy other there, too. Blake knows his physical limitations, and being an excellent shot and quick on his feet has gotten him out of tight situations before.

The distant sound of rushing water drifts towards him, making him more alert. He's close. He glances down and realizes he can see more in the tunnel now than before, all the shapes before him easing out of shadow and forming into dark gray outlines.

His hands grip his gun tighter, and he raises it as he continues walking. The rubber soles of his boots are nearly silent on the cement floor of the tunnel, and the sound of water grows slowly louder.

The sudden adrenaline spike in his system has his skin prickling. He won't deny it. This is one of the reasons he loves what he does; the excitement, the sudden rush. For some guys, it's extreme sports. For him, it's tracking down scum bags, bringing them to justice - and if he has to engage in a high speed chase with guns drawn, well too damn bad.

This is also something he never mentions to his anger management counselor.

Blake glances at the blueprint quickly, brow furrowing in thought. He estimates about thirty or so yards separating him and where the tunnel widens into one of the main sewer caverns on the layout. Two storm drains branch off from the outlet; even if it's not the same one he fished Gordon out of, it's a start.

Every maze has an end.

X X X

"You'll have to tell us who this guy is, you know."

Gwen looks up picking at her pasta, fighting equal parts smile and blush at Alden's words. Mikey and his boys picked her up earlier, offering to take her to a favored cafe in midtown. After hearing about the police commissioner being shot the other night, she's been worried about Blake, his partner and the rest of the city's force. The last time a cop was shot in Gotham, the mob had reigned supreme. Now, there have been two shootings in the last few weeks, and Gwen's seen - and spoken - the cat more times than most of said police force.

_A storm is brewing indeed_, she thinks, worried.

"Gwen?"

Her head snaps up, realizing she was lost in thought. Alden's giving her an odd look, his brother Jake sporting the same - habit, she guesses, of being twins. Both have their dad's dark, shaggy hair and kind smiles.

She shakes herself, and gives them her beset reassuring smile. "He has nothing short of good intentions, I'm sure," Gwen replies, and finds herself a little disheartened at her own statement. He really is a good guy, not just a good cop.

Jake sits back, crossing his arms, a mock of look reproof on his face. "So, no 'funny business,' then?" He questions.

"Jeez, you see that smile on her face," Alden comments, nudging his brother. "He's gotta be something if he's got her looking like _that_."

Gwen blinks and blushes immediately, unaware that she _had_ been smiling in the first place. Mikey chuckles from where he's sitting next to her, shaking his head. She sighs, making it a point _not_ to smile at nothing for the rest of lunch. Her gaze slips out onto the hustle and bustle outside the cafe, resting on a gray sedan parked across the street. She doesn't think anything of it, taking a drink of water as Alden and Jake continue to impersonate a hypothetical interrogation of Officer John Blake. Their dad even joins in, good-natured, but their voices filter to the background as she narrows her gaze at the figure sitting in the front seat of the sedan.

Even from several yards away, through the glass of the cafe front, she recognizes the vacant stare and dark, slicked back hair of Stryver.

She inhales sharply, looking down.

_Damn it, damn it, damn it_, she curses herself. Once she registers the sudden fear - for herself and for her companions - anger blossoms at the edges of her thoughts: her father.

Gwen's not sure how Stryver found her, but she hopes against doubt that her father had nothing to do with it. She's been trying to escape the feeling of being cornered, ever since the night of the shooting, and hasn't been able to shake it, despite the small measure of comfort that Blake's presence affords her. She hasn't felt this helpless since Mary passed away, and she'll be damned if she's going to let it go on any longer.

She excuses herself abruptly from lunch, apologizing but leaving nonetheless and catches a cab to her father's office. It's middle of the day on a Thursday; he should be in. And if he isn't, she's going to track him down.

The receptionist - Stacy - tries to stop her, but she ignores the woman's protests and - despite her gentile upbringing, and much to her mother's dismay - she jerks down on the handle and swings the door wide into her father's office.

Her father looks up from his position behind his desk, and she realizes he isn't alone. Another man in a suit, slim with light, short cropped hair and a shrewd look, stands off to the side, looking out the floor to ceiling window onto the streets of Gotham.

Both men's eyes are trained on her now.

"Vincent, you never mentioned your daughter would be joining us," the man at the window drawls.

Gwen can almost place his face, but it's like trying to catch smoke, pinning down his name. When she was younger, she tried her hardest to memorize the names and faces of each person her parents introduced her to at business functions. Sometime around middle school, she stopped trying, feeling too much like their puppet, an extension of them that they wished to mold into all of their hopes and expectations.

She feels this rebellion awaken within her again, and tries not to glare at the man.

Her father stands, straightening his suit and walking briskly around his desk towards her. "You should've called, Gwen," he says tightly, taking her by the elbow and leading her back toward the door.

She's about to speak, when the other man beats her to it.

"A word, Vincent," comes the smooth voice behind them. She feels her father's shoulders go rigid, his fingers tightening around her elbow imperceptibly. She catches his eye, a question, but remains silent as he slowly turns around.

"Gwen," her father says reluctantly, eyes flicking to the man by the window. "My business partner, Mr. Daggett. John, my daughter, Gwendolyn."

She can't help but think how much more she likes the other John in her current acquaintance.

Daggett smiles indulgently at her skeptical look, and approaches them in even strides. "You wouldn't remember the first time we met," he tells her, as if speaking to an old friend. "You were so young, but look at you now.. . .you're _all_ grown up," he admonishes, voice dripping with false warmth.

Gwen fights the urge to turn around and just leave, her level if discomfort reaching a peak as Daggett's eyes rake up and down her body. His scrutiny isn't lost on her father, who clenches his jaw but remains silent. And suddenly, despite being in her father's open-layout office with several floor to ceiling windows, she feels pinned, trapped.

She forces herself to look away, and instead looks at her father, eyes pleading though her expression remains set in defiance. She can't mention Stryver, not with Daggett standing right there, and in her current state of unease, she can't think of a clever and subversive way to let her father know what's happening, either.

"Please go home, Gwen," her father asks of her, and she's thrown for a moment that he actually used the word _please_. "We'll speak later."

She bites the inside of her cheek to keep from yelling at her father, shaking him until he's forced to listen to her - to everything that's been going on in the recent past - but when she turns her gaze and sees Daggett's cold eyes, lightly crinkled at the corners in faux amusement, she decides against it. She only hopes _later_ isn't too late.

As she's leaving, the large wooden door sliding shut behind her, Daggett's eerily smooth voice drifts back to her.

"Be seeing you soon, Gwen."

X X X

Isabel sucks in a quick breath as she's forced to straighten and reaches out a hand to steady herself on the wall of her closet. Her cousin's hands still behind her, pausing in lacing up the back of her dress.

"Too tight?" Talia asks gently, her deft fingers moving to loosen the criss-crossing laces she's already secured.

Shaking her head, Isabel continues to hold her hair to the side, deep in thought. Bane is close to finishing his work beneath the city. She doesn't know everything of her cousin's plan for revenge, but what few pieces of information Bane has let slip past his lips when he's drugged are enough to raise her concern. Up until this point, their quest - her cousin's quest - has not claimed any innocent lives. She fears the day that changes, and wonders if she'll be able to stomach it.

She won't _see_ them dying, of course; her sight was robbed from her long ago. But she'll hear them, smell it in the air as they overtake the city. It makes her shiver with fear.

"You are beautiful," Talia proclaims, finishing the last of the lacing at the base of her neck. "A true sight to behold. I wish you could see yourself, Isabel."

Isabel's eyes close as she feels them prickle with tears at her cousin's words.

They have always shared the bond of sisters, instilled in them by Talia's father after she escaped the pit as a child. _The league is your family, and we do whatever it takes to protect our family_, Raz's words echo in her mind. It was only later, after she and Talia had begun their training, after the chemical accident. . .that Isabel had learned exactly what her uncle would do to people he did _not_ consider family, including Bane.

"Do you ever have doubts?" Isabel asks quietly, turning to face her cousin - for her benefit - because all she is greeted with is continuing darkness, and a faint scent of gardenia.

Talia hesitates. When she answers, her voice is low. "Do you?" She counters.

Isabel doesn't bother lying to her; there are few secrets between them. "Yes," she answers quietly.

A hand comes to rest on the side of her face, warm and reassuring. "It is natural, to be sure," Talia tells her. "You are a healer, and he and I the warriors."

Isabel nods, accepting of this summation of their differences. It is the cardinal reason she pursued medicine despite being trained for combat by the league. She knows this is the way of things, Bane ripping apart for the world for her cousin by day, and coming to her for confession and mercy at night.

She hopes, despite knowing, that it will not always be so.

X X X

When Bruce first spots her on the dance floor with some man old enough to be both their fathers, he can't help but deny how beautiful she looks. Beautiful, and deadly, in a way that no other woman has ever looked to him before.

_Not even Rachel_, he thinks sadly.

This woman - Selina Kyle - has a voice smoother than honey, eyes sharper than knives and knows exactly what she's doing and how she's playing everyone around her, including the man she's currently dancing with. The pearls rest on her neck, an elegant column, as he takes in the slightly sloping of her bare shoulders, the way she glides across the floor like water.

Bruce ducks his head, and continues to circle around the edges of the large hall, keeping a low profile. Many don't take notice of him, and those that do, he politely excuses from their acquaintance quickly enough. Miranda Tate had certainly caught him off guard, but at the moment, his focus is on the woman in the cat mask.

He cuts in between Selina and the older man seamlessly and relishes at the look of momentary look of stunned surprise in her eyes behind her mask. At least this time he got the drop on her and not the other way around. She recovers quickly however, and somehow Bruce isn't surprised. His extracurricular activities over the last two decades or so have taught him to multitask well, and he puts his skills to the test as he simultaneously trades verbal barbs with her while taking note of her perfume - Chanel, the same his mother always wore - and how nice she looks with his mother's pearls around her neck.

It's the last thing he'd expect a jewel thief like her to claim and wear in public so brazenly, but Bruce finds himself admiring her all the more for her daring. Little has piqued his interest since he retreated from the social and professional circles of Gotham, but she certainly has done so, and in so short amount of time.

It strikes him, the more they speak of his veiled past and hers, that she seems much, much older than she looks. The chip on her shoulder is monumental, but then again, Bruce has been carrying the same one since he was a child. She uses her words as weapons, and almost every dig at him that comes past her lips seems to chip away a little at practiced veneer of amused indifference.

He almost smiles at her verbal slip up of Ibiza, a beautiful island, but only someone who has visited would know the accent in which its name is pronounced. He's about to reach for the pearls around her neck, when suddenly her eyes widen slightly and she slides an arm through his.

"Damn it," he hears her mutter. He follows, slightly amused, as she guides them to a quiet alcove separate from the main dancing hall.

"What's wrong?" Bruce asks, as she positions herself against the wall, him between her and the rest of the party guests. When she doesn't immediately respond, eyes still focused on something - or some_one_ over his shoulder - he smirks. Perhaps another party guest she has wronged in the past. There must be many. "Cat got your tongue?" He says.

Her eyes flash back to him quickly, and they roll ever so dramatically. He wonders if she practices that in a mirror, she makes it look so elegant. "Nobody is above a badly worded pun, are they?" She counters.

He smirks, lifting a hand to trace along one of the corners of the cat ear's on her headband. "You make yourself an easy target, Ms. Kyle. If you wanted to get me alone, all you had to do was ask."

The banter is familiar, something he's practiced over and over again. And though he may be rusty, the right things to say - things that usually make women blush - come rolling off his tongue oh so easily.

Apparently immune, Selina scoffs, tilting to the side. "Please," she breathes, tone heavy with sarcasm. "If I wanted to get you alone, you'd _know_ it."

Bruce's mouth pulls down into an appreciate shrug at her words, something sparking within his chest. He has no doubt she would hold true to that promise. He takes a moment to study her again, up close this time. Dark brown eyes, flawless white skin, bright red lips and his eyes again flick down to the pearls at her neck. She is all smooth lines, but he knows appearances can be deceiving. Her beauty hides her skill, camouflages it like the bright colors on poisonous animals belay their true deadliness.

He thinks how little she is like Rachel, ever pacifying and looking for the harmonious and lawful way to solve problems. Bruce thinks how _much_ this woman is like him: defensive, silver-tongued and completely and utterly damaged - perhaps beyond repair.

_Birds of a feather,_ he thinks humorlessly.

"If you wanted pearls, all you would have to do is ask," he counters after a moment, liking the effect his words have on her. She's on unsteady ground, he can see it in her eyes. "I'm sure there are any number of willing gentlemen who would _happily_ oblige. . ."

Her eyes narrow for a moment, and the line between beautiful and deadly blurs again as he feels her body tense and shift, ready to strike. She takes a step back, but can't go far, and stops when she hits the marble wall of the alcove encasing them.

The moment passes, however, and her suspicion is quickly replaced with a heartbreakingly coy smile as she tilts her head to the side.

_Mask back in place_, Bruce notes, only slightly disappointed that the shutter has come down behind her eyes again.

"Are you offering, Mr. Wayne?" She asks him in her most seductive of tones.

He won't deny there is an attraction there, between them, for _her_, but there are still too many questions unanswered about her involvement with Daggett. He's not certain how much danger she's in, but he knows it's a lot. And, try as he might to convince himself it's solely for the good of Gotham that he wants to get to the bottom of it, there's an ulterior motive as well that has everything to do with her and very little to do with the city.

Bruce takes a step towards her, resting a hand on her shoulder gently as he leans in and whispers. "Are you asking?"

Her skin is warm beneath his hand, humming with anticipation and. . .something _else. _To his surprise, he feels her shiver underneath his touch. Even she can't mask that. When he pulls back, his hand reaches up behind her neck and undoes the clasp of the pearls. They unhook effortlessly and he holds them in his hands, between them.

She's eyeing him and he sees the anger flash across her eyes - the frustration of being found at the party, of being cornered by both him and by his words.

"Another night, perhaps," he tells her softly.

Her eyes burn for a moment and he realizes, a fraction too late, what she's going to do before he can react. Not many have gotten the drop on him when it comes to reflexes, but she seems to have an oddly distracting effect on anyone she comes into contact with. He's no more immune than the next man.

She reaches up, a hand on the side of his neck, presses her lips to his in one swift, harsh motion and steals a kiss from him just like she stole the pearls. His eyes flutter closed for a second, and when he opens them again, she's already dashing off, back into the crowd and out of sight.

He brushes a hand across his lips, the hand holding the pearls, not entirely sure if he would have stopped her had he know what she was going to do.

The kiss lingers on his lips for the rest of the night, even after Alfred picks him up and takes him home. He can't even be upset that she took his car - he'll track it down soon enough - because he's far too confused to be upset at the moment.


	10. Life will always reward you

Ah, yeah. That hiatus. It won't happen again - at least, not for that long. RL has been absolutely bat shit crazy. Like an earthquake hit my life, but I'm back. I'm here, and action is officially kicking this story's ass. Do let me know your thoughts, good or bad, I thrive on it all.

Also - I posted this without proof reading so you guys wouldn't have to wait any longer. Will go back over it later, as I'm already a few scenes into the next chap :)

X X X

Bravura

_"Life will always reward you for your sacrifices."_

X X X

Gwen steps out of the cab, handing the driver a twenty and skirts onto the sidewalk before she becomes a part of the pavement; it's a busy Tuesday afternoon in Gotham's financial district, and drivers stop for nobody. She tucks her scarf closer about her neck, most of the chill remaining despite the sun's position high in the sky. The few trees planted at intervals along the sidewalks are slowly blooming against winter's retreating chill, cherry blossoms pink against the gray of the skyscrapers.

She pulls out the piece of paper from her coat pocket, eyebrows knitting together as she reads over the words again. It's no more than a messy scrawl - the address of the stock exchange, a date and time. Her father had left it on the table by the door of their condo, and Gwen had slipped it into her back pocket when she'd stopped by to pick up a few things the other night. Normally, she would think nothing of it - but since the visit to her father's office, the shooting, the non-robbery. . .

_Storm's coming, girl_, the cat's voice echoes in her mind. Gwen can't help but feel like it's already here, that it just hasn't reared its ugly head yet.

Shaking off the thought, she crosses the street, jogging to beat out the flashing orange countdown and walks up the steps of the stock exchange. She pulls out her phone; the trades will resume after lunch in just a few minutes and the clocks will match the time written on her father's paper.

The foyer is busy with traders returning from lunch, sliding their briefcases on the conveyer belt and stepping through the metal detectors, some distracted, some irritated that they even have to go through this process day in and day out. Gwen steps forward and drops her purse on the belt, and walks forward. The woman with the wand on the other side waves her through with a bored look, and she collects her things after being given the clear.

Gwen's walking down the somewhat intimidating marble hallway to the trade floor when she hears her name called out; she turns, recognition momentarily distracting her from her mission.

"My eyes must be deceiving me. . ." a young man hails her. He's well dressed in a gray pin striped suit, button up and purple tie; short blonde hair gelled back, smiling the infallible smile of a day trader. She hasn't seen him since she graduated Gotham State, and thinks he looks much the same.

"Hi, Glen," she greets, her gaze shifting between him and the large, double glass doors that lead to the floor. Lunch ends in two minutes, and she continues to fiddle with her father's paper clutched in her hand.

"Hey yourself," Glen returns, his smile a little over friendly for a former classmate, but she brushes it aside, bigger things on her mind. "It's great to see you. What've you been up to since graduation?"

"Well. . ." Gwen looks between her classmate and the trade doors, and a thought hits her. She returns his smile this time, and slips the paper into her back pocket. "Not as much as you – when did you start working at the exchange?"

She knows it's the perfect thing to say when Glen's face lights up, and he begins talking animatedly about his internship and how he'd been hired as a full-time trader after it ended a few months ago. They shared many of their senior year classes together and, while many girls found Glen Cornish charming, she always found him to be rather. . .bland.

Her father would call her unreasonable for counting out such a fine young man, and her mother would most likely agree.

He's in the middle of describing the kinds of trades he helps relay when she cuts him off as smoothly as she can manage, precious time ticking away faster and faster. "Any chance I could look around in there? Just a quick peek," Gwen says, making a gesture with her fingers to indicate how small and quick her visit will be.

She can see the indecision shift across his face - like an open book, he was always very easy to read. The parallel between his open features and Blake's usually guarded expressions cross her mind, but she tries not to dwell on it.

"Well, maybe for just a few minutes. . ." he concedes. On cue, a bell sounds, signaling the end of the lunch hour and traders filter into the hall, making their way to the double doors that lead to the trading floor.

"Quick! Come on," he says, reaching for her hand before she can stop him. He pulls her along side him, through a sea of men and women dressed in suits and trade uniforms. She keeps her head down and follows him into the large, circular room, momentarily overwhelmed at the sheer magnitude of it all.

_It's an entirely different world_, Gwen muses to herself as Glen continues to lead her through the throng of bodies. He turns around quickly, dropping her hand and bringing a finger to his mouth, making a shh gesture.

"Don't make too much fuss and you should blend right in," he winks, and she smiles reflexively in return. _Sweet kid_, she thinks.

Soon he's gone and she's back to fidgeting, doing her best to stay out of the way of the traders, some shouting, many on cell phones, and almost all of them looking just as frantic as a squirrel scrambling across a busy street, trying not to end up as road kill.

Gwen glances at the trading boards, and back to the myriad of clocks posted on a far wall, showing all the different times in major cities around the globe. She pulls out the paper again, glances at it, though she has its contents memorized, and spots Glen up near the front, haggling for a trade to be executed.

Maybe it's because she's near the entrance, or because her focus isn't entirely on the stock exchange in progress, but when she hears the faint echo of a gunshot - an unmistakable sound since the night of her parent's robbery - she freezes. Moments later, men in street clothes burst through the double glass doors and automatic gunfire reigns supreme on the trade floor for what seems like hours.

She ducks down, slamming her hands down over her ears and screwing her eyes shut. The sounds rattle down to her bones as chaos - an entirely different kind of chaos - breaks out around her. She can hear her heartbeat thundering in her ears as a paralyzing chill travels up her spine, keeping her rooted to the ground.

When the gunfire ceases, silence settles over the room like an oppressive cloud. Gwen looks up, slowly, from her crouched position by the doors and her heart plummets. It has been doing that all too much to her in the recent past.

Glen's in one of the chairs at the main hub, and there's a huge, hulking - almost inhuman - masked man stalking towards him.

They exchange words, Glen's expression caught between fear for his own well-being and indignation that somebody would stage a robbery at the stock exchange. The masked man drags him by the shoulder in his chair to a computer station and slams him unconscious against the desk. Blood drips onto the floor from a wound on his head.

"_No_," she breathes, almost to herself. She's seen too many people die in the last few weeks, unsure if she can bear to watch any more of it without doing anything except stand idly by. She has no special skills, and minimal knowledge of defensive fighting from a series of classes she took at Gotham State. What more can she _do?_

The masked man turns at her utterance, eyebrow arched as he strolls towards her, a lion closing in on its prey.

Gwen's certain she's going to die - that the moment he reaches her, he's going to wrap his hands around her neck and snap in two like a twig. It's this certainty that both horrifies and calms her. She knows she is powerless to stop it - the only thing she does have power over is how she handles the situation, how she carries herself against an obviously deadly person.

No, not person. This man doesn't seem human, he seems more than that. A monster.

She tries to stop herself from trembling as he towers over her, mustering up the weakest of glares._ This_ is the storm the cat warned her about,_ this_ is the reason her captor shot himself through the head rather than risk being arrested. _This_ is the reason Gianna's lifeless body lies in an early grave.

The masked man contemplates her for a moment, the mechanical rasp of his breathing increasingly menacing the longer he stares her down. After a beat, he seems to reach a conclusion, and nods curtly; Gwen flinches at the slight movement.

"On your feet," he commands.

X X X

A round of gunfire resounds from within the building, and if it hadn't already been trained out of him, Blake would have flinched. He could scarcely comprehend - along with the rest of the force - when the call came through that somebody was holed out in the goddam stock exchange. Anyone crazy enough to attempt that certainly warrants attention, caution - and very, _very_ rattled nerves.

Several squad cars surround the entrance, including his own. Ross, along with a few other uniforms, is covering one of the rear alley ways in case the suspects take a back route, but something in Blake's gut tells him that if they're crazy enough to pull something like this off, they'll want to be front and center once all hell breaks loose.

He turns off the safety on his gun, resting his wrists on the open door of his vehicle. He exchanges glances with Foley for a second, and knows that he likes this just as much as Blake. Eight years of relative quiet and now, within the last few weeks, there have been shootings, kidnappings and robberies, the likes of which Blake hasn't seen since he joined the force a few years ago. The likes of which didn't even exist after the Batman disappeared.

Blake takes a deep breath, exhales through his nose, as movement catches his eye.

"Sir," he calls to Foley. "Hostages," he relays, his eyes remaining trained on the developing movement.

"I see 'em, I see 'em," Foley says, tugging at his collar nervously. "_Steady. . ._" he warns, this time in a louder voice for all the cops present to hear.

The people filter slowly out of the entrance, hands raised, eyes wide. Nobody wants to get shot. Blake can feel the adrenaline wanting to take over his actions, but he forces himself to remain calm, finger resting on the trigger guard, unblinking, aware of every breath in and out of his body and how it makes his aim shift ever so slightly.

"I've got something!" One of the sniper's voices comes over the radio just as frazzled cries break out from the crowd dispersing from the exchange. People begin to flee as their pushed forward, and Blake watches in a half-stunned state as the suspects fly out of the entrance on five motorcycles, a hostage with each one of them riding on the back against their will.

He swivels to keep his gun trained on the nearest motorcyclist as the others do the same, equal parts furious and irritated that he can't take a shot without risking a civilian's life. He's about to slide into his car when a detail catches his eye - red hair against all the tan, grey and black, and his heart stutters: Gwen's pinned to the back of one of the motorcycle's, her face a mix of panic and pain.

He sees her recognize his face a second before the motorcycle hits a road ramp, flying into the air and disappearing down a nearly empty side street where the big rig is parked. He doesn't waste a second, flying into motion before he can consider all the horrible outcomes of this scenario. The ignition turns on a dime and, before he can peel off, his passenger door whips open and Foley slides into the seat next to him.

"Let's go, kid," Foley says in a hard voice, slamming the door shut.

Blake doesn't wait for him to say it a second time.

X X X

The cuffs binding Gwen's wrists to the back seat of the motorcycle cut into her skin, making her wince as she fights to keep herself steady. She can't see the driver, but knows it was the man who executed the trades back at the exchange. The evening air whips her hair into her face, making her eyes water. The bike must be traveling at least fifty miles per hour, flying down the streets; to both her relief and horror, the police are right on their tail. She counted six motorcycles in all, and she's strapped to the back of the last one in the group, too frazzled to think beyond don't fall off the bike, don't fall off the bike.

If she falls off the bike, she's dead.

But, a voice whispers inside her head, if she _stays_ on the bike, she's also dead. Criminals don't like witnesses.

The thought makes her want to cry, so she tries to focus on getting out of the hand cuffs that anchor her to the bike. Her wrists feel raw and she winces as the bike cuts to the left and they enter an underground tunnel, the squad cars' lights illuminating the darkness with too-bright reds and blues. The sirens are blaring, cars honking, and she can hear the man behind her cursing into the air as he tries to maneuver around the sparse traffic in the tunnel. Gwen's only somewhat grateful she can't see what's coming, only what's chasing them.

A high-pitched ringing fills her ears and suddenly she sees the tunnel lights go out, row by row, until she and the man driving the motorcycle are plunged in momentary darkness. The man curses again, slowing but not stopping, as Gwen continues to pull at the handcuffs encasing her wrists, adrenaline and fear threatening to overwhelm her.

As a child, she never was very afraid of the dark. Mary taught her not to be. There will always be monsters in the dark, she'd tell a seven-year-old Gwen, but you don't have to be afraid of them.

An idea strikes Gwen, the tunnel lights illuminating at the same time, and she glances down at the pavement streaking by beneath her feet. They're only going thirty-five, maybe forty miles per hour, but when she looks up, she freezes, her plan dissolving into utter confusion.

The Batman - really, she _must_ be hallucinating at this point - stands there in his black cape and cowl, some kind of gun raised in her direction. No, not her direction she realizes._ Their_ direction, the robbers. The masked man.

She almost gets sick as the bike lurches forward in a sudden burst of acceleration - guess her driver saw the same thing she did - and they resume their escape, now only three of them remaining. Soon they're out of the tunnel and back onto the streets; night has fallen completely but the city is alive with the sirens and the screams of all the cars on the street in their pursuit. Gwen's not sure how much more of this she can take - from what she can see over her shoulder, none of the other riders have their hostages. She's the only one that has yet to escape or be thrown off.

It probably has something to do with the fact that her captor handcuffed her to the motorcycle - why go that far? For her safety? She scoffs at that idea, just as another motorcycle skids out of the control to her right and smashes into a lamppost.

She fights down the tears trying to claw her way up her throat. Whatever storm is coming to the city, this is a precursor. This robbery, the attack on her parents' condo, it's all a part of it. And she swears she's going to get to the bottom of it, with Blake's help, with whoever is willing to help her, and she's going to do what she can to stop it.

The last remaining motorcycle, its driver sporting the red helmet that Gwen remembers the masked man was holding, rides up beside them and grabs something from the backpack pushed up against Gwen. She tries to get a look at whatever it is, but the man in the red helmet clips her on the back of the head, and veers off, flipping a wide U turn and heading straight back for the line of police cars on their tail.

She watches as the red helmet disappears into the dark and out of the shadows appears the Batman on - no, it's not a motorcycle, but something close, and he's closing in on them quickly.

Belatedly, Gwen realizes she can't feel her nose at this point, or her fingers. They've all gone numb, from the adrenaline or the Gotham cold, she's not sure. Her lips are cracked and her wrists ache. She can't stand how helpless she feels right now, along for the ride on the back of a fucking _terrorist's_ motorcycle.

The Batman is too far back for her to make out his features clearly, but she's pretty sure he's pissed. At least, he doesn't look happy. She wonders how she looks, and if she'll end up as collateral damage when he finally catches up to them.

It can't be much longer, because the gap between them is closing fast. They take an on ramp up to the bridge and Gwen finds herself hoping and pray that Mary, wherever she is, is looking down on her and watching out for her, because Gwen's done a horrible job of doing that for herself thus far.

She realizes, for a second, that they've lost him - _lost_ the Batman - and her fear is increased ten fold once again. She's alone with the robber and he's driving them God-knows-where. . .

And then she hears a sickening, mechanical thud and her head snaps back, pain lancing from the base of her skull and through her shoulders as the motorcycle suddenly stops. Disoriented, she looks up, blinks away the tears caused by the constant wind lashing against her face, and turns around to see the Batman looming over the driver.

He reaches down one gloved hand and smashes the protective lens on the man's helmet, and then he's looking straight at her.

She's heard so many conflicting stories about him, and her foggy mind struggles to separate those villainous and those heroic. Her father wanted his head on a spit. Mary commended his valiant, though at times misguided, attempts to exact justice on the city's criminals. Gwen. . .well, she always believed in him like a child believes in comic book hero; not perfect, but there, and willing to do what it took to make a difference - _without_ killing anybody in the process. That part she liked best.

He pulls something from the man's backpack and tucks it away. Then, he's stalking towards her at a quick, measured pace. She doesn't know what he's doing until she feels the release of pressure on her wrists and the handcuffs fall free.

She looks up at him, slowly rubbing circulation back into her wrists. "Thank God you're back," she says shakily.

Gwen can't be certain, but she swears his mouth quirks a little at her words. He doesn't say anything in return, only turns on his heel and mounts his bike - some strange space-like bike that she's sure the cops _wish_ they had - as several squad cars surround him on all sides on the bridge, a spotlight illuminating them both from a helicopter in the sky.

He escapes, but she's not surprised. The police shouldn't be, either - despite being out of practice for eight years, the Batman is still able to pull off a Houdini act while making the magician look like an amateur.

She's just grateful he chose tonight, of all nights, to return.

X X X

_Where's the fun in that?_ She asks him.

He wants to admire her daring, her careless approach to putting bullets in evil men and watching them crumple to the ground, but even he will not be persuaded by her come hither glances and swaying hips.

They spar against at least a dozen men on the rooftop and, for a moment, he believes they're going to make a clean getaway. What she doesn't realize, Bruce thinks, as he clips one assailant across the chest and takes out the legs of another, is that these men aren't the usual, run-of-the-mill Gothamite thugs.

No, they're far more dangerous than that - dangerous because what they believe in, they believe is _everything_, and because they have _nothing_ to lose. And when the gunfire erupts, Bruce isn't taking any chances. Whoever is firing won't care if they hit the men he and she are fighting - they'll simply be collateral damage.

He runs to the edge of the rooftop, and can hear her steel-studded footsteps right behind him. He jumps down into the cockpit of the Bat and looks back up for her. The metallic clang and zing as bullets ricochet off their surroundings. She's poised on the edge of the rooftop, looking between him and the armed men at her doorstep.

She must see something that frightens her more than him, because with an _umph_ and a roll, she's climbing into the backseat. He doesn't wait for her to buckle up before starting it up.

"My mother warned me about getting into cars with strange men," she drawls from behind him.

"This isn't a car," he replies roughly, not catching the tightness in her voice as he lifts them off into the night.

Quiet soon settles around them as they both catch their breath, and it's after a few minutes that he realizes hers isn't leveling out into even breathing like his is. He hears her mutter something under her breath and turns around, trying to spot the source of her discomfort in the dark as he continues to guide the Bat over the city.

"What's wrong?" He asks.

She flashes him a humorless smirk, her white teeth flashing in the dark. "You wouldn't happen to be serving in-flight cocktails on this thing, would ya?" Her smirk falters a little as she bites her lip, and he sees how unnaturally tight her arm is pressed against her side.

"You're hurt," he states. Without thinking, he turns around to recalibrate their flight to take them back to the cave. "How bad?"

"I've had worse," she grits out. The defiance in her tone almost makes him smile.

"I'm sure," he deadpans.

"No need to play hero," she says, and he can hear the irritation in her voice. "I can take care of myself. Just. . .drop me off at my place and I'll have my friend. . .stitch me up."

He doesn't respond, only continues on their change of course. One glance over his shoulder and he sees she's close to passing out, which he can't have. He's going to need her conscious when he's stitching her up so he can determine just how badly she's hurt. And to keep her from slipping into shock.

"I didn't take you for the type to pass out halfway through," he tries, and he can hear a weak, answering chuckle from behind him.

"Wouldn't you like to know. . ." she comments, her voice growing more sluggish.

"Stay with me, Ms. Kyle," he urges, looking over his shoulder again at her. Her head is resting against the glass, shallow breaths coming out in foggy puffs. Her eyes are still open, but only just. He fights down the urge to shake her awake, his hands remaining resolutely on the steering handles, knuckles tightening.

"Stay with me," he repeats, the echo of a distant memory not lost on them. He can see the approaching tree line, and knows they're only a minute out from the cave now.

"Ms. Kyle," she repeats softly. "So _proper_. . .my mother would have liked you."


	11. Our parents were gods

Apologies for the lengthy absence on this one. I've been in the process of moving these last three weeks, and it's left very little time or energy for writing. I'm almost all settled now, though. This chapter's intense in a different way than the last, lots of quiet moments and BatCat. That said. . .onward!

X X X

Bravura

_"Our parents were gods, until we realized they were only human."_

X X X

_She clambers up onto her raised bed, pulling the lavender sheets and white comforter tighter around her as she settles into the safety of her dolls and stuffed elephant. Her seven-year-old self, wide-eyed and loving, yet smart and quick on her feet. This is a good night, she knows. They had pasta for dinner, and Selina ate until she was full. Her father is already asleep, his temper dormant for the time being, and her mother is tucking her into bed._

_"Can you read me a story?" young Selina asks, hopeful as she slides farther down beneath the covers._

_Her mother, so beautiful - the prettiest lady in the world - sits down on top of the covers next to her, a sad smile on her face._

_"Not tonight, baby girl," her mother whispers to her. She smooths back some of Selina's wild, mahogany locks, the deepest of browns that contrasts so sharply with her fragile, pale skin. "Mama's tired."_

_Selina hides her disappointment as best she can and nods her understanding. There are ways good days and bad days, and today wasn't a bad day, so she should be thankful. And she is.  
_

_"Okay, Mama," she says softly._

_Her mother smiles down at her again, and leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead, her cheek._

_"There's a good girl. Sweet dreams. . ."_

When Selina comes to, an immediate wave of nausea threatens to plunge her mind back down into the darkness of her past. She groans in response, becoming sharply away of every ache and throb that pulses through her body, spurred by the simple movement of breathing.

God _damn_, it hurts to breathe.

And then she realizes two things very quickly: the first, she's blind folded; and the second, that she cannot move her arms.

Her left arm is. . .nearly numb, she realizes with mild alarm (she's woken up with worse.) The bullet. . .one of Daggett's men got off a lucky shot - though Selina's not sure if it was luck so much as it was skill. As she remembers it, the bullet came dangerously close to nicking the artery in her arm.

And the right. . .she lifts her wrist experimentally and hears the tell-tale sound of metal gently scraping against stone. She'd know that anywhere.

"You have _got_ to be kidding me," she mutters under her breath.

"You shouldn't try to move," an all too-familiar voice rasps from somewhere on her left. She tries not to jump, and only partially succeeds, her nerves scattered and the nausea making it difficult to think - much less remain calm. She is blind folded and chained to a rock, after all.

This is _certainly_ one for the books.

"Is that your. . .medical opinion?" Selina gets out between shallow breaths, trying to sit up on the elbow of her uninjured arm.

A grunt, and then some shuffling sounds reach her ears. Metal scraping against stone, fabric brushing along the surface of a floor. And then a very deep, very long, sigh. It strikes her that it is a sigh of relief.

Relief that. . .what? That she's alive? That she's _conscious?_ The thought that the friend of a playboy billionaire who likes to dress up in - what_ever_ the hell his costume is made of - currently has her hostage is a little unsettling.

To say the least.

She's currently going to ignore the fact that the moderate pressure around her upper abdomen is most likely a bandage, and that Bruce Wayne's "powerful friend" did indeed save her life. She doesn't like being in people's debt, especially when it's a "you saved my life" type of debt. It's been her experience that those kinds of debts somehow lead to an early grave for at least one party involved.

"It's the opinion keeping you alive right now." This time his voice is quieter, almost a whisper.

It's then that she takes note of the far-off sounds around her. They're not surrounded in complete silence, like she first thought; there's the distant rough, white noise of rushing water and the sound of rustling. . ._wings?_

Dear God, _please_ don't let those be wings. She shudders to think what kind of pets this guy might keep.

"So it would seem," she allows, sitting up as much as she can. She draws her hand to her side where she knows the bullet pierced her suit. Another realization dawns on her as she skirts across thin cotton instead of spandex.

"And I'm _naked_," she deadpans. Not quite, but close enough. She's never been one for under exaggeration, after all.

"I had to get you out of the suit to stop the bleeding," he informs her after a slight pause. "I didn't. . .look."

If she weren't still currently blind and at a _monumental_ disadvantage, she'd actually find that comment quite charming, both because of the slight note of uncertainty in his voice and because she truly thought men who said things like that were long extinct. Or so her mother taught her.

"Whose clothes am I in now?" Selina asks plainly, wincing as she shifts her weight off her uninjured arm.

"A friend's," is all he replies with.

Selina reaches across her chest with her good arm, lifting up the hem of the cotton shirt sleeve to her nose.

"_Male_ friend?" She clarifies, arching an eyebrow though it's most likely covered by the blind fold.

"Nobody you know."

"You'd be surprised how many people I cross paths with in my line of work."

Another sigh, and she has to let herself smile a little in triumph. Even with a pint's worth of blood loss (she figures that's the reason she feels so queasy), she can still hold her own in conversation. When your hands are chained and you're blind folded, at least that's _something_.

"It's not really fair, you know," she drawls. "You've seen so much of me, and yet. . .I'm not allowed to see you?"

"It's for your own good," he tells her after a moment. His voice is deep, raspy like she remembers it on the rooftop, but the more he talks, the more that goes away and she realizes it's just an act to disguise his voice.

Well, of _course_ a masked vigilante would have good reason to keep himself disguised. This was one area of her past that she failed in. Spectacularly.

And the next thing he says has her rolling her eyes:

"We need to talk about Daggett."

Of course, Wayne's special little friend _had_ to be smart, too.

X X X

When they arrive back at her apartment, it takes all of Gwen's strength not to collapse on the floor. Blake follows in after, closing the door behind them both without speaking. She rubs her wrists absently, walking over to the thermostat and switching on the heat. It's ice cold in her apartment, though she doubts any warmth can cure the ache in her bones tonight.

She's looking around her apartment, half boxed up, half arranged with decor that her mother picked out for her when she graduated Gotham State. The blood red accent wall in the kitchen was Gwen's choice, but when she looks at it from the hallway, all it makes her think of is the blood that's been spilt over the last several weeks.

Blake's phone rings, and she hears him answer quietly as she continues to stare at her surroundings. Everything's in its place. Well, nearly.

"No, I'm afraid we didn't, Commissioner," Blake says from behind her.

She glances over her shoulder and meets Blake's eyes for a second. She can see the almost-smile at the corner of his mouth. . .no, they didn't catch the Batman.

Blake clears his throat and diverts his attention back to his conversation with the Commissioner. "What was that, sir?"

Gwen turns away, mouth quirking. She pads down her hallway, her slippers soft on the hardwood floor, and pushes the door open to her bedroom. The room is quiet, save for the air blowing out of the floor vent. Moonlight streams in through the one window that looks out onto the busy street below, her room cast in varying shades of blue.

She sits on the bed, sinking into the comforter and sheets, and clasps her hands in her lap, wary of her bruised wrists. It's then that she realizes she's nervous, not having forgotten the promise she made to herself in the rush of adrenaline and sound.

"Hey."

Gwen looks up, tensing for a moment but relaxing immediately when she realizes it's only Blake standing in her doorway, and not a masked monster. He recognizes her alarm, and his face softens ever so slightly as he leans up against the door frame, arms crossed.

"Rough day at the office?" He tries lightly, and it makes her look down, smiling despite herself.

"You could say that," she replies, looking back up again and meeting his eyes. "Good thing I had somebody looking out for me."

Blake makes a wry face, shaking his head. "Not too sure many people would say _that's_ what he was doing."

"I. . ." Gwen begins, but pauses, looking out her window again. "I wasn't talking about the Batman."

Her comment's met with silence at first, and then she hears a silent _oh_. She keeps her gaze trained on the window as the silence grows, too nervous or exhausted, to turn her head and see what kind of expression Blake's wearing. She always knew - knows - that it would be her to say something first, about the certain affinity they've developed between each other. She doesn't know much about his past, but the present she has become acquainted with, she likes. It makes her want to learn about his history even more, where he came from, who raised him, why he chose to become a cop.

Why he smiles when he doesn't mean it, and why she can tell when he doesn't mean it.

She hears him shift in the doorway, and then feels the bed compress next to her, bringing with it the aroma of rubber, smoke and something else; she's not sure how to describe it. It's definitely a scent she's come to associate with him.

For a second, she lets the other things slip from her mind. The hesitancy and complication and fear, and just lets herself enjoy the feeling of him sitting next to her, somehow comforting her though only their shoulders are touching. With how fast everything happened earlier, and the pace of which life travels in Gotham, she lets the still, quiet moment sink in.

When Blake finally speaks, it's just above a whisper, but she catches every word.

"I'm not used to this," he admits softly. "Somebody who can call bullshit on me." After a second, he says hurriedly, "Pardon the language." Gwen smiles, but remains silent as he continues. "Father Riley. Ross and his wife. The guys at the precinct. . .they all _know_ me, you know? They've known me for years, Riley the best. He practically raised me. . ."

Gwen turns and meets his gaze at this rare confession of his past, and reminds herself to ask him about it later, when they're both not so exhausted. He's anxious, and the blue hue of the room softens his features so he looks even younger than she knows him to be, more vulnerable, more boyishly handsome.

His gaze is guarded, but she's become used to that by now. It's only through anger or surprise that she glimpses all of what's going on in his head. And how quickly this has become familiar to her. . .she's not sure, and she doesn't question it.

"I'm not a hero, you know," he tells her, and it's in so grave a tone, that she has to chuckle softly to herself. Her laughter draws a hesitant smile from him as he bites his lip - does he always bite his lip when he's nervous? - and asks, "What's so funny?"

"You've saved me twice, John. Probably more times than that," Gwen tells him. "You'd have better luck convincing a bird not to fly."

His mouth quirks, eyes crinkling a little. "Well, I'll be sure to work on that," he says in a professional tone, good-natured.

A sudden, jaw-cracking yawn hits her, and she covers her mouth as she yawns, then rests her head on his shoulder as if it's the most natural thing in the world. His uniform is worn and scratchy against her cheek, but she's too tired to care, especially when he remains very still, not pulling away.

"You're only human," she says. "If you were anything more, you'd be Superman."

She hears him stifle a quiet laugh and reply, "Now wouldn't _that_ be something."

X X X

He's in the middle of interrogating her when he questions whether or not it was wise to bring her to the cave. At the time, all he could think about was Rachel and the price she'd almost paid for Crane's madness. Selina had been at Daggett's for far different reasons - escape rather than justice - but that creeping panic, the same he felt with Rachel, had rooted itself inside of him the moment he'd realized something was very, _very_ wrong after they'd made their escape.

He was worried for her, and it has been a long time - longer than he cares to admit - since another human being besides Alfred has evoked that kind of response from him.

Guess his heart still beats after all.

"What did you do with the fingerprints lifted from the safe?" He asks her, effectively cutting off another attempt of hers to persuade him away from his line of questioning.

She's quite the seductress, he'll give her that. She chooses her words carefully, whispers them as if to a lover and it's all to ensure that those she comes into contact with play their parts like her puppets. It makes him wonder at her need for control. How _out_ of control had her life been in the past? He knows what's on the official record, but there are always things that happen off the books, behind closed doors, in the dark.

Her hand is halfway to reaching up to remove the blind fold he placed on her when his hand shoots out to stop her - not gloved, but bare and callused. Though they shared a brief waltz, he doubts she can identify him from the shape and feel of his hand.

And if she can - well, then Alfred truly is right about her.

She sighs, dramatically, and drops her hand to her side. He doesn't miss her slight wince at the movement. "I sold them to Daggett," she answers.

Bruce can feel his heart sink a little in his chest, his eyes widening. "Why?" He questions, his voice rough again.

Selina is looking in his direction, lips half parted as if in disbelief at his very simple question. Then she turns away, sharply, and shakes her head.

"Why _else_ would someone like me get mixed up with the likes of him?" She mutters, pressing a hand to her bandaged abdomen. "I wanted out."

He mulls over her answer, satisfied to finally have the upper hand in the conversation but displeased when he starts putting the pieces together.

"And Daggett paid you to deliver Wayne's fingerprints," he concludes for her. He says the words slowly, as his mind figures out the rest. It doesn't look good for her.

"That's what I _did_," she corrects, her siren-song voice slipping into irritation. "For something that doesn't even _exist_. . ." she trails off, and he wonders if she's becoming dizzy again.

Should he warn her? He's not even sure why he bothers asking himself the question. He recalls their dance, their verbal exchange and how many times during that brief conversation that she made him pause, made him look up, pull himself out of his automaton state of being.

At the very least, she's worth a warning that could save her life. And perhaps more.

"What does he want with the fingerprints?" Bruce asks, and she mentions the stock exchange shoot out that happened earlier, asks him if his re-debut went as well as he thought it would.

He glances over at the table where the flash drive is sitting, and knows he has to get it to Alfred. He's admittedly wasted a lot of time tending to her, waiting for her to wake up. It's close to two in the morning now.

"You should've taken prints from the picture frames," he tells her finally.

Her head snaps in his direction very quickly, hair whipping over her shoulders, and he can see her jaw clench.

"Ex_cuse_ me?" Her voice is dangerously low.

Bruce almost regrets saying anything, because he can hear the fear below the anger in her voice. As much trouble as she's caused him, he can't help but warn her.

"Wayne's not the only one that uses that safe," he elaborates after a moment.

She purses her lips and continues to stare in his direction, and he can only imagine the look in her dark brown eyes: one of anger, and hurt.

"And how the hell do _you_ know that?" She demands quietly.

He ignores her question, and knows he'll get away with it because she's too focused on her own fear to make any vague connection between him and his alter ego. She presses a hand to her forehead and takes a steadying breath, and he knows it won't be long before she's out again.

"It's not important," he tells her. "You need to leave the city. As soon as you can."

She tilts her head back and smiles, but it's humorless and almost loopy. He realizes that's what the rest of her face looks like when she rolls her eyes, and it almost gets him. She enjoys doing that.

"Story of my life. . ." she says as she slides back down onto the table. "What now?"

Bruce resists the urge to reach out and rest a hand on her shoulder. "You'll wake up in your apartment tomorrow," he replies. "And when you do, you catch the next bus out of town."

Her voice comes out as a mumble, and he knows she's fading fast - into sleep instead of shock this time. "Whatever you say, _Bats_. . ."

X X X

Blake's fairly certain this isn't the best idea he's ever gone along with. In fact, he's pretty sure he could get reprimanded for it if the captain ever found out (he knows he's already on the man's shit list for mouthing off. On several occasions.) He could pull the exact code from memory, the one that states a cop should never mix his personal life with his professional one, the code that states interaction with a victim of a crime should be limited to professional circumstances only.

Well, he never was one for following the rules.

When she'd asked him to stay, he found his concern for her overruling his hesitation. If he were being honest with himself, he knew he first breached conduct the night he brought her home after her parents' robbery; when he'd raced to her apartment after those fucking goons had paid her a visit; attending that little girl's funeral; Dent Day.

He really doesn't care for certain rules.

Right now, Gwen's asleep. Her quiet, even breathing and the distant sounds of late night traffic are all that fill his ears. It stumped him for awhile, before he realized that this is what peacefulness feels like. They'd both removed their shoes, and he his jacket and vest. She's curled towards him on her side, hands resting against her cheek on her pillow. Her hair looks purple in the moonlight, splayed against the pillow and outlining her face like a dark picture frame against her pale skin.

She's as still as he's ever seen her, and he finds himself not wanting to look away. He doesn't want to dwell on what that might mean. Propped up on one elbow, he's certain it'll be awhile before he falls asleep. Night patrols are usually what he and Ross are assigned, and it's altered his body clock to be the opposite of nearly everybody in his life - what few people there are.

Riley had told him once, "You're never gonna find yourself a girl if you keep hours like this, Blake."

He'd waved off the man with a shrug and an easy smile, placating. He poured his efforts into patrolling and all the paperwork that went along with it. Dating seemed. . .mundane, compared to his pursuit of justice. He hadn't said this during his best man speech at Ross' wedding, of course. (Grace might've killed him.) He'd been brief and gruff, admittedly somewhat choked up at the look of complete awe on his partner's face when his future wife had been walking down the aisle toward him.

And yet, he's here, in her _apartment_, lying next to her on her _bed _and watching her sleep.

Ross' words come back to him then - _lovely_ - and while Blake's not accustomed to using such language, he wouldn't mind conceding that the man may have been right on that account. She's a trust fund baby who donates her money and volunteers and. . .seems to wind up in dangerous situations more often than not. He'll have to tell her to work on that.

He studies her face, then: pale skin and dark hair, full lips - he lingers on those longer than the other features, and is snapped out of his focus when she begins to stir, and he holds his breath unconsciously, convinced that he's thinking too loudly or shifted too much on the bed and woke her. He realizes these conclusions are ridiculous, but he's considering them nonetheless.

Her eyes open lazily and it takes her a second for recognition to kick in. When it does, the smile's in her eyes, subtle.

"Can't sleep?" Her voice is thick from sleep, but her eyes are clear.

Blake finds himself smiling a little, and it's not just one of his automatic gestures. "Something like that," he replies quietly.

She closes her eyes and nods her head, as if in agreement. "Mmmm. . ." she mumbles. "No monsters in the closet, y'know. I checked."

Blake smirks at her words, curious if she's even going to remember she spoke them come morning.

That makes him pause. Is he staying the entire night? He supposes so. He doesn't have to report back at the precinct for another day and a half. He still has miles and miles of tunnels to search through, and knows that Ross isn't going to be happy to keep being dragged along. Gordon wants to speak with him as well.

But all of that is tomorrow, and in the quiet, Blake pushes all those thoughts away into a box that he'll open in the morning. He sets aside the accompanying worry, and settles down onto the pillow next to hers.

"Isn't that my job?" He asks Gwen quietly.

She shakes her head again, eyes still closed and lets out a soundless laugh. "Mine now," she tells him.

He lies on his side, facing her, mere inches between them, and doesn't say anything. Tentatively, he reaches forward, and pushes back a few locks of hair that have slid down to cover half her face. He tucks them behind her ear, and then returns his hands to himself.

Her job to look out for him? His last thought before he drifts off to sleep is that it doesn't sound so bad to him.

X X X

Light pierces Selina's vision, making her wince against the sudden pain she feels behind her eyes. She lifts a hand to shield her face, slowly opening her eyes to take in her surroundings: she's relieved to see her wardrobe mirror, merlot colored walls and the scarves hanging from her closet door. She lifts up her the shirt she's wearing (plain, black, and obviously a man's) and is not so relieved that a red pinprick of blood has already bled through her bandage.

The early morning light is threatening to burst through her sheer curtains, and her caped savior is nowhere to be found.

"So _that's_ what that feels like," she mutters, grunting as she sits up. Usually, she's the one to ditch before the sun comes up, though it's been quite a long time since she's ever pulled that kind of escape.

The previous night is coming back to her in bits and pieces, particularly the bits including the Batman (she shudders to think that she actually owes the man now) and glances around her bedroom. It's eerily quiet, even for this time of morning.

"Cat?" A voice calls from the other room. Jen's voice.

Selina's head turns towards the door, and slowly ambles to her feet, pressing a hand to her bandaged side. She grimaces; the wound, despite being a through and through, is going to put a damper on her plans for at least a month.

"Mouse?" Selina calls as she walks into the hallway, rubbing sleep from her eyes with the hand that isn't pressed to her abdomen. "You're home?"

Only silence.

Her first warning should have been that - the absence of hearing Jen traipse around the apartment, always rather clumsy on her feet for how good she is with her hands - and the second warning should have been the smell as she walks further down the hall.

It doesn't dawn on her until she walks into the common area, and freezes on the spot at the scene before her:

Philip Stryver is standing next to her couch. Or rather, he's standing over Jen as she sits nervously on the center cushion, her hands balled into fists in her lap. One muscled backup stands to Stryver's right, and a second is standing between her and the front door of the apartment. They stand with their hands clasped in front of them, like sentries.

She's outnumbered three to one. Just fucking _great_.

Selina exchanges looks with Jen, whose eyes are wide and glassy with barely-contained fear. She fights to keep the panic from her own expression, and instead turns a cool gaze on Stryver and his sickening, tilted smile.

"Good morning, boys," Selina says coolly, and she's proud of how level her voice comes out. She feels anything but.

"I wouldn't call it _good_," Stryver says, straightening the lapel of his suit.

"Oh?" Selina arches an eyebrow, eyes sliding quickly over the two guards, trying to assess any possible advantage she might have. Her hope is short lived when she does the cold math, with her injury, their strength, and Jen's clumsiness.

She's _fucked_.

Stryver's next words send a chill down her spine. "You've been failing to live up to your reputation, it seems."

Selina narrows her eyes, but she keeps her voice smooth as she replies, "Now what makes you say that?"

"This," Stryver says simply, pulling a gun from his coat and shooting Jen in the head before Selina can even scream.

The sound makes her ears ring, and it's like a sucker punch to her gut. The scream that's clawing its way up Selina's throat dies there as she watches Jen's body slump back against the couch, head lolling lifelessly to the side. Her friend's red blood against the taupe of the couch is what Selina focuses on to keep herself from breaking down in front of Stryver and his men, but it's a thin string she's barely grasping on to as he continues to talk, his voice white noise in her ears.

"Three of the prints you delivered belonged to Wayne," Stryver says. "Two belonged to Alfred Pennyworth. As of right now, the trades that we executed are frozen and a fraud investigation is pending."

Selina's eyes flutter in confusion, and she clenches her jaw as her throat constricts. She fucked up. And now Jen's blood is all over the furniture. She refuses to look at the girl's face. Not while Stryver's still there.

"We gave you two jobs," Stryver continues. "Two _simple_ jobs for a master thief such as your self. We were assured of your objectivity and talent. It seems we were led astray."

Led astray. Like an abandoned _puppy_. Something cold roots itself inside of Selina's heart, pushing out the shock and the pain and she looks up to meet Stryver's steel gaze, her fists clenching at her sides as her body begins to tremble.

"Get. . .**_out_**," she breathes, her teeth gritted.

Stryver's eyes gleam with a sick sense of satisfaction and he nods curtly. He pulls a white cloth from his jacket and cleans the gun, placing both back within the folds of his clothing. He leaves, tipping an invisible hat to Selina as he passes her and his two shadows follow after.

Only after they have gone, and she's locked the three dead bolts, does she slide down against the door and buries her hands into face, gripping at her hair until it hurts. She cries - fucking sobs - for longer than she knows, Jen's body in the next room, and she nearly drowns in the fear and pain of it all.


	12. We do not choose whom we love

Happy New Year's everyone! This chapter was tough for me to write, and I hope I got it down right. And I really can't thank all who have reviewed enough - it is both encouraging and inspiring to read all of your comments, thoughts and suggestions. It really keeps me motivated! Thank you so much!

X X X

Bravura

_"We do not choose whom we love, only how."_

X X X

She awakens to the sound of his breathing, always his breathing. His form is so much larger than her own, so hulking, though she knows it is only to compensate for his one physical weakness - his mask - laid out for all to see. When they were younger, in hiding from the world and in training with the League, he was tall and wiry; now he is the physical manifestation of strength, a match for any foe.

Though she knows this bodes poorly for his opponents, it gives her a small measure of comfort. It will take a great force to bring him down.

His voice is deep from sleep and the after-effects of the drug. "You are awake."

She nods, turning in his embrace to face him. He remains conscious long enough only to eat, brush his teeth and shave when he needs to. A half hour at most, she has it down to a science after so many years. They fell asleep on her bed, him far before her, and she let the rare moment of silence settle in around her like a comforting blanket, pretending for just the night that they were only two people who sought comfort in each other's arms and nothing more.

No war, no sworn acts of revenge. No killing.

"Do you remember. . ." his voice trails off, and Isabel tilts her head up towards the sound of his voice. "Do you remember the day we met?"

He only ever speaks of the past when under the influence of the drugs, but she doesn't comment on this. Instead, she lifts a hand to her wrist, padding her fingertips along the embossments on the watch face: sometime after five in the morning.

They have a few more hours of peace, and she knows it is both a blessing and a curse. For a few hours, he is hers, and then he will don the mask and become the monster her cousin has groomed him to be.

"I remember," she answers quietly. "How should I ever forget?" His face, his eyes will be burned into her memory for the rest of her life.

His arm, draped over her hip, tightens protectively around her. The motion draws her closer so she can feel the scratchy cotton of his shirt and the cargo pants he wore all night. There are some lines even she dares not cross.

"Tell me," he says, voice still thick. "Tell me what was your first thought."

Isabel closes her eyes against the sudden rush of memories. It's not his question that has her fighting against the knot in her throat, but the quiet sense of hope in his tone as he asks her. He is vulnerable in so many ways when under the influence of the anesthetics, and only with her.

"I thought. . ." she begins, then pauses. She knows there is no use in lying to him; he has always possessed a talent for seeing into the true nature of things, and she is no exception. "I thought you were too beautiful to have come out of a place so evil."

"_Ahh. . ._" he sighs, pulling her closer yet to him. "Blood and all?"

Isabel reaches forward to rest a hand against his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing. His scent envelops her completely, and she closes her eyes against the dark that surrounds her at all times. His lips brush across her forehead in a lazy almost-kiss.

"Blood and all," she whispers in return.

X X X

The coffee's halfway finished brewing when Gwen wanders into her kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She's about to question her sanity, as she swears she didn't start the machine, when a yellow post-it sticking to the pot catches her eye. Her mouth is already curving into a slow upward smile as she reaches for it and reads the small, neat handwriting.

_At the precinct, call me if anything comes up._

_See you later._

_-JB_

She pours herself a cup, adding a heinous amount of sugar (no cream), and settles onto the couch. She takes a few big gulps before flipping on the TV, tucking her feet underneath her to keep warm.

The 10 AM news is in full swing and, though she knows better, she's still sickened to see how the media swarms to interview the other kidnap victims, questioning them about their reactions, how did they _feel_, what went through their _mind_ as the masked terrorist held the _entire_ exchange hostage.

"It was absolutely fantastic, didn't you know?" Gwen mutters to herself, finishing off the last of her coffee.

She's about to switch the channel (not wanting to hear what the media has to say about the Batman) when coverage of a fraud case catches her eye: bad trades apparently executed by Bruce Wayne are under police investigation following the hostage incident.

Why on _earth_ somebody as intelligent as Wayne would do something like that truly confuses her and, in the back of her mind, she realizes something's off. . .

She's snapped from her tumbling thoughts at a sharp knock at her front door. Perhaps it's because she just woke up, and the coffee hasn't kicked in yet, but for whatever reason, she doesn't think to look through the peephole before opening her front door. And maybe it's because Blake stayed the night with her, the temporary feeling of security afforded by his presence not having worn off yet, the way his blunt but sweet note on the coffee maker makes her smile.

For whatever reason, when Gotham's infamous cat burglar - unmasked with fury blazing in her dark brown eyes - bursts forward and grabs her by the neck, Gwen is caught _entirely_ off guard. She sputters for breath, and the cat only laughs, a hollow, humorless sound as she struggles to get her bearings. The master thief has her pinned up against the back of her door, completely cornered in the narrow hallway.

"How's your morning, sweetheart? You have a good time with your _cop_ friend?" The woman drawls. The spits out the world 'cop' like it's poison.

In the light of day, Gwen notices the faint wrinkles at the corner of her dark eyes, the deep vibrance of her hair, pale complexion of her otherwise flawless skin. She also takes note of sharp, white teeth, and the red-lipped sneer adorning it.

Something bad has happened, Gwen knows, and it has to do with the exchange. Everything's connected.

She blinks a few times, and tries to breathe, but the motion feels as if knives are being dragged across her throat. Eventually, the cat registers her difficulties and scoffs, releasing her grip on Gwen's throat and turning away in disgust.

Her vision swims for a second, and she brings a hand to gently massage her throat. She takes a few deep, steadying breaths, and then looks warily at the cat.

It's got to be bad for her to come to her apartment, unmasked and in the day. It's got to be really, _really_ bad.

"I'll let you in on a little secret, Gwen," the cat says carefully, quietly. One hand hangs at her side and the other is surreptitiously pressed to her rib cage.

Knowing escape is a silly, stupid idea, Gwen settles into a sitting position at the base of the door, a hand still on her throat. "And what's that?" She manages to get out, her voice hoarse.

"I had it fucking _made_," the woman confides, voice low and sharp. "I was the best in town, but this kind of life doesn't come with the a pension plan. So, I wanted out. And what do I do?" She glares down at Gwen, eyes narrowed to slits. "I take my last pair of jobs - the kind I'd stayed away from my _entire_ career - gigs that I could retire on, get the hell out of this shit hole of a city and start fresh on another continent."

Somewhere in the middle of her speech, Gwen realizes something: the cat's not just angry, but scared as well. She remains silent, almost convinced the woman isn't there to kill her - though the possibility remains in the back of her mind.

"The first job goes all wrong, and a goddam little girl is shot _dead_," she continues, and Gwen winces.

_Gianna_, she remembers. She'll never forget.

"And then the second," the cat says, "I get outsmarted by a silver spoon-fed _cripple_." The cat makes a flippant gesture with her hand, resting her head against the wall and closes her eyes. "What are the _odds?_" She asks softly, as if to herself.

Gwen doesn't realize she's tearing up until her vision blurs, and she closes her eyes and looks away. She never thought she'd feel sympathy for a person like Gotham's most infamous jewel thief, but it's there, along with the apprehension. She understands now, what's happened. She harbored the same anger towards her father after the robbery.

"Who did you lose?" Gwen asks into the silence.

There's a brief moment where she thinks the cat might lash out at her again - or worse - but when Gwen opens her eyes and meets the woman's wavering gaze, she sees only sadness in her eyes, the fury all but gone now.

"Jen," is all she says. She runs both hands through her hair, smoothing it back from her face, collecting herself. "Her name was Jen."

Gwen nods, silent, looking down. "Your sister?"

Another scoff. "She should _be_ so unlucky. . .she was the closest thing I had to family."

The sympathy stabs at Gwen again, and she tries to set it aside, reminding herself of how dangerous the cat is, how easily she could slit Gwen's throat and not bat an eyelash.

"Who killed her?" She asks after another moment.

The cat looks away, irritated with herself, with her weakness. "Fucking rat in a suit," she mutters, her voice dangerously low.

Recognition strikes Gwen, and she sits forward, her hand dropping from her throat. "Stryver," she confirms.

The woman's eyes snap back to hers. "What do _you_ know of him?"

Gwen's eyes slide down the hall, to where the news is still playing on the TV in her living room. She runs over the events in her mind with clarifying speed. The shootout, the exchange, her father's meetings, Daggett.

"Daggett hired you, didn't he?" She asks, returning her gaze to the cat. "To steal something from my father. And to set up Wayne."

The cat walks towards her slowly, closing the few feet of space between them and then squats down to Gwen's level, eyes narrowed. One hand is still pressed to her side, though less noticeably now.

"Don't take this personally, sweetheart," she drawls, "but how have you _not_ been killed for all you know?"

Gwen decides to take the glint in the cat's eye as a compliment, batting down a wave of apprehension in the process.

X X X

"Leave us."

Vincent Gallo knows the moment Bane enters the room, he's a dead man. It's an odd sort of realization and, as it settles into the pit of his stomach, he considers his two options: fight or flight. To fight would surely be useless, as the masked terror is - _easily _- twice his size and stronger even than Gallo can imagine.

Bane also has nothing to lose, Gallo notes. He cannot say the same for himself. Flight is out of the question.

"No! Stryver, stay where you are," Daggett orders. "I'm in charge here."

The inane statement almost makes Gallo roll his eyes, but he refrains, and instead takes a few steps back towards the hallway, pulling out his phone at his side.

Bane's voice rumbles across the silent room, making Gallo flinch as he quickly taps out a message to his daughter.

"Do you _feel_ in charge?" Bane asks as he lay a hand on Daggett's shoulder, and Gallo slinks further back into the shadows, quickly finishing the message and sending it before anyone can stop him.

Daggett looks over at him from across the room with a mix of horror and disbelief. Gallo steels himself for what happens next, and isn't surprised when he feels a rough hand shove him forward onto the floor from behind. One of Bane's lieutenants steps forward and presses a boot into his back. He grits his teeth to keep from making a sound at the sharp pain that lances up his spine.

"You and your associate's money and infrastructure have been important - _integral_ even," Bane continues, his hand turning to grip Daggett's shoulder. "Until now. . ."

Gallo feels something cold and hard press up against the base of his skull and he closes his eyes in preparation for what comes next.

He hears Daggett scream - a horribly, ragged sound. He hears the click of the trigger as it's pulled behind him.

And then nothing.

X X X

Bruce has to admit, it's a surreal kind of experience, riding in the front seat of a squad car with a cop who knows about the _other_ guy. Talk about one for the books.

He also has to admit there's something keenly familiar about Blake, something that reminds him so much of himself before all the years of self-exile and crusading for the city. While Raz had taught him to let go of the anger of his troubled past, Bruce can't deny that its mark will forever remain. His anger and pain defines him, and it always will.

_Angry in your bones_, he recalls Blake's words at the mansion. It's an ugly, yet eloquent, way of putting how he feels when reflecting on his childhood, yet he knows this is where he and Blake differ; while Bruce has made peace (for the most part) with his past, Blake still buries his pain behind a mask.

That'll have to change, and Bruce wonders if the kid's up for the challenge or not. Only time will tell.

"It was damn good to see him back," Blake says, smirking a little.

Bruce allows his fragile ego a brief moment of pride before it's deflated by memories of eight years past. "Not everybody agrees," he comments, looking down.

"They'll figure it out soon enough," the rookie shrugs, shaking his head. He opens his mouth to say something, then pauses. "The girl you saved the other day, at the exchange. . .she believes in him, too."

Bruce arches an eyebrow, not missing the shift in the cop's tone as he spoke the latter part of his statement. "Does she now?" He says.

Blake's mouth pulls down into a nonchalant shrug, and he keeps his his eyes resolutely on the road. "Yeah, she does," is all he responds with.

Bruce finds himself stifling a smirk, and glances out the window at the passersby as the squad car continues to roam up midtown. "What's her name?" He asks.

There's a brief pause on Blake's end, until he finally answers. "Gallo. Gwen Gallo."

Bruce mulls over the name, recognition prickling at the edges of his mind. He's read it somewhere before, in a report connected with Selina's case file.

"Her father. . ." Bruce begins, and Blake continues for him, in line with his train of thought.

"Works for Daggett," the younger cop supplies. "And probably Bane, too. Indirectly, at least. I think this net of theirs. . .it's cast a lot farther out than you or I know."

Though his words are troubling, Bruce knows the kid is right. There are so many puzzle pieces moving around on the board right now, and he's only just beginning to fit them together. He just hopes it won't be too late for the city - or for the Batman - when he puts all the pieces in place.

He drags a hand along his jaw in thought, brow furrowed. "What do you have on Bane's whereabouts?" He finally asks.

"Not much," Blake admits. "I've been digging up tunnel records for the city. I could use some help, actually."

"Tunnel records?" Bruce echoes, turning to look at the rookie.

Blake nods, glancing over at the man. "It's just a hunch, after I fished Gordon from one of the outflows."

Bruce nods, impressed with Blake's initiative. "Sounds like more than a hunch," he tells him, and he knows the kid doesn't miss the approving note in his tone. He motions to the upcoming intersection. "Drop me in old town, will you? I've got a friend I'd like to see."

X X X

Gwen's sitting in the waiting room of the precinct when her phone goes off. She pulls it out, glancing around at the receptionist and a pair of passing policemen before reading the message on the screen. The words make her cold immediately:

_Follow the money. I love you. I'm sorry._

Her throat tightens as she realizes her father's the one who sent the message. She presses a hand to her mouth, her mind jumping to the worst because, despite all of Mary's encouragements to always spot a silver lining in the storm-ridden sky, it is her father's approach of always considering the worst case scenario that kicks in during that very moment.

She wonders if he's fled the city, or if he's dead. . .she closes her eyes, pressing the heel of her palm to her forehead.

_Think, think, think_, she tells herself. If she doesn't focus, she'll break down. She dials her father's cell and presses the phone to her ear, anxious as the dial tone sounds and it continues to ring and ring and ring.

She dials it again, no answer.

She tries her mother next, who thankfully picks up on the second ring.

"Where's Dad?" She demands, fighting down panic.

"I-I don't know, Gwen. He left for the office a few hours ago." Her mother sounds scared, her voice rough and uneven, as if she's been crying. "I'm glad you called. I was thinking we should take a trip, a change of scenery. I can get us on a flight out of Gotham International tonight. What do you think, honey? Will you come with me?"

The words gradually become white noise in Gwen's ear the longer her mother speaks. Her father's message, her mother leaving town.

She sits back in her chair, her voice distant as she speaks. "You're running," she says. "From what? What did Dad do?"

Her mother begins to cry on the other end of the line, and Gwen wants to believe she has no idea what's going on, but it's been her experience that only guilty parties crack under pressure, especially when confronted with the truth. Her father hasn't been the only one lying to her.

"What did he do, Mom?" Gwen asks again, this time her voice taking on a hard edge. "Do you have _any_ idea how many people have suffered since that night?"

"I'm sorry, sweetie," her mother gets out between sobs. "Please don't be upset with him. He was only trying to protect us."

Gwen scoffs, feeling tears prick at the back of her eyes, tears of anger. "_Protect?_" She repeats, disgusted. "How is _that_ protecting _us?_"

"They needed your father's construction crews," her mother answers. "His money, his resources. They didn't care who provided it. If your father refused. . ."

It doesn't hit Gwen until a second later and a puzzle piece falls into place, part of a conversation she shared with Blake weeks ago. Her mother's broken voice echoes her thoughts.

"He left _everything_ to you, Gwen," she says, voice crackling over the line. Noise. It's all noise to her. "They would've come after you, if he'd said no. . ."

The words leave her feeling hollow, and Gwen hangs up without saying goodbye, without telling her mother that she'll leave the city with her. She sits there in the precinct, her phone in her hand and stares out of the window that gives way to the busy city street.

She looks on, with the cold realization of her father's actions.


	13. Listen to the rain

Ack, this took me way longer than it should of. . .without further a-due, the fallout from last chapter. Continued thanks and appreciation for all of those who keep reviewing/favoriting/following this story. You guys keep me going when writer's block hits! Do enjoy the chap :)

X X X

Bravura

_"Listen to the rain, and the lullaby it sings to you."_

X X X

"You going somewhere?"

She nearly jumps at the sound of his voice, and straightens up, smoothing down her hair as she turns and meets the smug look of Bruce Wayne in her doorway. He's got his hands braced against the doorjamb and, she has to admit, temporarily broke as he is, he looks quite dashing in a suit and tie. Even if the tie's not tied properly.

He's probably fully aware of this fact, too, she reasons, and so she rolls her eyes. "Should I even _bother_ asking how you found me?"

"You might, but it'd be a waste of time," he tells her, surprisingly good-natured.

Selina returns to folding her clothes and walks to the closet to pull a few more scarves. "You like the place?" She gestures to the living room space, including the heavy blanket she draped over the couch where Jen's blood still stains the fabric. Bleach isn't a miracle worker, but she doesn't intend to stay much longer, anyway.

_Buck up, girl_, she tells herself, and flashes Bruce a smile to distract herself. "It's not much, but it's more than you'll have if that little trick they tried at the exchange _actually_ works."

Belated, she throws over her shoulder, "Sorry about that, by the way." It's difficult to summon up much remorse in her voice, the memory of Stryver in her apartment still fresh in her mind.

He arches an eyebrow and walks into the room, hand drifting across the edge of an end table and moving to stand a few feet from where she's packing. She wonders if he caught the hollow edge in her tone when she spoke.

"Very clever, I'll admit," he says carefully, and something in his voice makes Selina pause in her motions. "But it doesn't sound like your style."

She meets his gaze for a moment, dark brown eyes in a handsome face with waving brown hair to just above his shoulders. He's a rather handsome mark, and part of the reason Jen's buried in one of Gotham's many cemeteries now.

She bends down to grab one of her tool kits to pack, and winces at the sudden pain in her shoulder. Sucking in breath through her teeth, she presses a hand to where the bandage wraps snug around her underarm and over her shoulder blade.

"Hurt yourself?" Wayne asks, arching an eyebrow again.

_Wouldn't you like to know_, Selina thinks, but all she says is, "Just a scratch." She resumes her packing, wary of her shoulder wound. Her patience is wearing thin, and she doesn't want to stay in the apartment any longer than she has to, the space once shared by cat and mouse. Now there's just her.

"Why are you here?" She says finally.

Wayne's gaze is scrutinizing, and it makes Selina uncomfortable. Even standing there with his hands in his suit pockets, he puts her on edge and she _loathes_ being on edge, unless she's the one who put herself there, unless she's the one in control.

She remembers the kiss she stole from him, and mentally shoves it away in disgust.

"You're still interested in the clean slate," he says, and she pauses, again, suddenly annoyed that he has the power to keep making her do that.

"There a question in there somewhere?" She says, feigning boredom as she zips up her suitcase and sets the lock on the zippers.

"My friend can get it for you," Wayne tells her. "No strings attached. All you have to do is lead him to someone."

Selina scoffs, and looks at Wayne, a hand on her hip. "_That's_ a string," she reminds him pointedly.

"A far less dangerous one than those pulled by others," he counters enigmatically, but she's certain he knows exactly what he's saying.

Strings, like the one cut from her life after she fucked up twice. Her gaze drifts from Wayne and over her shoulder to the couch, her throat suddenly clenching behind her jaw. So many jobs and so many strings, she's honestly surprised she's made it this long in her life. This couldn't have been what her mother had in mind for her. And Jen. . .well, she was the first person she let in to her life, took under her wing, taught her the tricks of the trade. Jen was going to be her prodigy, the one good thing that Selina did - teach a young girl how to survive the meat grinder that was Gotham City - and in the end, Selina was the one who got her killed.

"Hey." His voice sounds surprisingly close to her, making her head whip around to face him. Wayne's standing inches away, his brow knit in - what? concern? it can't possibly be concern - and she can smell the faint scent of an expensive cologne.

She swipes at a tear - too late, as it rolls down her cheek - and refuses to meet his gaze. She crosses her arms over her chest, despite the pain it tweaks in her shoulder.

"Who does your friend want to meet?" She asks, though she already knows the answer.

There's a brief, tense beat of silence, in which she fears he might do something stupid like reach out and touch her or say something overly sentimental, but the moment passes and he steps back, sighing quietly as he does so.

"Bane," he tells her. "Take him to Bane, and you get your way out. I promise."

X X X

Blake is ten minutes out from the precinct when he feels his phone vibrate against the center console of the patrol car. He glances at Ross, who wordlessly picks it up, answering the call for him. Out of the corner of his eye, Blake can see his partner's face grow more grim by the second. Whoever's on the other side of the line, they've got nothing but bad news.

_What else is new_, Blake thinks darkly.

"No, we'll inform the family," Ross says quietly into the receiver. "We know his daughter." He flips the phone closed and puts it back in the console, and just stares ahead with a far-off look.

Blake's grip tightens around the steering wheel unconsciously, a biting mixture of anger and dread settling in the pit of his stomach. He narrows his eyes at the road before them, already knowing what his partner's going to tell him before he says the words aloud.

"They found Daggett," Ross tells him, needlessly.

"And Gallo," Blake mutters. He's not exactly sure what the man did to deserve being killed, but he knows it's criminal and that it's going to break Gwen's heart, no matter how little the two of them saw eye to eye on certain matters. A father's a father, no matter how imperfect he is.

_Was_, he corrects himself.

"Yeah, by the dumps in the Narrows," Ross sighs, running a hand over his short-cropped hair. "Definitely a message killing. . .Christ, man, everybody's dropping dead. This city's going back down the drain, and _fast_. What am I gonna tell Grace?"

"You tell her we'll be fine. We're not gonna lose this city," Blake tells him, resolute. His grip is white-knuckled on the wheel now, the nerves in his fingers stinging with protest. "Your boy's gonna be fine."

"Blake," his partner says, but he ignores him, eyes on the road.

His mind is shooting off in a dozen different directions: he wants to tell the Commissioner his suspicions, he wants to be there to tell Gwen in the least painful way possible that her father's been executed, he wants to help the Batman any way he can, he wants to strangle every person responsible for damaging Gotham, for killing Mark's older brother, for shooting down a little girl, for making people feel like they can't be safe in their own city.

He wants to do all of this, but all he can do at the moment, is drive.

"Blake!" Ross nearly shouts, and just like that, Blake's snapped out of his swirling thoughts of anger and bitterness, and glances over at the older man.

"Sorry," he says automatically, glancing at Ross for a moment. He releases his foot off the gas pedal, not realizing he'd been pushing fifty. He hangs a left, their precinct now in sight a few blocks ahead.

Ross gives him a wary look, one that almost evokes shame from Blake, and shakes his head. "I swear, John, you _have_ to get that under control," he tells him. "It'll be the death of you."

His anger's been one of the few things that's kept him going all of these years, but Blake doesn't say that. Ross already knows this, and wants something better for him. He doesn't want to let his partner down, one of the few people on the force who believed in him when he came out of the academy an angry youth with a singular purpose: justice.

Blake's not sure the kind of anger he caries can be cured through optimism and hope, but he'll try - for Ross, for Riley, and for Gwen. But at the moment, he can't promise anything more than that.

When they pull into a vacant spot in front of the precinct, Blake kills the engine and just sits there for a moment. Ross is watching him closely, gauging his reaction, his temperament - but he's tucked away his anger safely for the moment, in a small metal box in his mind that only pain and fear can unleash again.

Outside, the sky is overcast, a precursor to a rainstorm.

"I'm a pretty angry son of a bitch, aren't I?" Blake says into the silence.

Ross shifts uncomfortably, averting his gaze to the dashboard. He sighs, and looks back at Blake. "Yeah, you are. But you're a good kid, and a _damn_ good cop."

Blake finds himself smiling ruefully, and his partner cuffs him on the shoulder as he chuckles, the tension broken. "I was hoping she'd rub off on you," Ross tells him. "She's a good influence, you know."

He doesn't have to ask who Ross is referring to, because Gwen is the first _she_ in Blake's life that he's ever let come even remotely close to knowing who he truly is underneath all the stoicism. He hasn't had many romantic relationships in his lifetime (he can count them all on one hand), and they all ended after awhile either because of his anger or the hours he kept, or for the simple fact that he couldn't connect long enough to let his guard down, a guard he's kept in place since he was a boy and had to be driven to the morgue to identify his father's body.

It's sad, now that he thinks about it, and he's not sure why he hasn't noticed that before.

They get out of the patrol car and enter the unfortunately bustling building, Ross splitting off to inform Daggett's wife and Blake with the intent of calling Gwen and asking her to come meet him there. He's checking his phone automatically for any missed calls - either from the Commissioner, or the officers who called to inform them about Daggett and Gallo - when bright auburn hair catches his eye.

He sees her first, sitting at a desk a few over from his, talking to another cop he recognizes, Anders - a few years older than him, and very physically imposing, even when sitting. The man's jotting down notes on the desk as Gwen sits in the chair across from him, her shoulders slumped, hair hanging in long, loose curls down her back.

She looks incredibly small compared to Anders, and it triggers something in Blake, something akin to protectiveness.

He approaches them at a measured pace; Anders looks up, a question in his steel grey eyes, as Blake rests a hand on Gwen's shoulder, despite the other cop's scrutiny.

To hell with him.

Gwen turns and looks up at Blake, her eyes red-rimmed and tear stained, and that makes up his mind for him. He can see the relief in her eyes, behind the grief.

Looking to Anders, he says, "Can she take a break?" He doesn't need to be told they're taking her statement, and asking in the first place is really only a courtesy. Somebody already beat him to the punch in telling her about her father, and that nearly makes his anger rise to the surface again.

Anders glances between him and Gwen, and then reluctantly gives a curt nod of his head. "Sure, Blake," he tells him.

Blake nods, and Gwen gets up and follows him to one of the interrogation rooms in the back of the precinct. After closing the door behind them, he turns to find her watching him, brown eyes wide and shining with tears she's been holding back. All of his previous anger in the car fades completely away, and is replaced with the strong urge to say something - anything - that will keep her from crying.

"You know?" She says, her voice small and quiet.

Blake can feel himself tense up, and he nods, slowly. "I was going to call you when I got here," he tells her.

She looks up, taking a step towards him, her eyes focusing in understanding. "I wish you'd been the one to tell me," she says. She shakes her head, letting out an unsteady breath and running both hands through her hair. The bright auburn is a stark contrast to the white and steel of the interrogation room.

She begins to pace, and Blake just watches, unsure of what to do next. This is all new territory for him. He's informed countless family members of tragedy, but never has he dealt with one he knew personally.

"I wish I'd figured it out earlier," she says, talking fast now. "I knew my father wasn't entirely on the level, but funding terrorists? How the hell do you fix that? He said to follow the money, but where do I start when it's a multi-million dollar company?"

"Gwen, hey-"

"_Follow the money_, he said, like it's a scavenger hunt. Only, if I don't figure it out, something bad is going to happen. Worse than being told he was killed execution style and left to rot in a dumpster-"

Blake reaches for her hand in an attempt to make her stop pacing, and pulls her towards him so she is forced to meet his gaze. Her eyes are still shining, and he can tell by the stubborn set of her jaw that she's forcing herself not to break down, to logically reason out everything that's happened to her. But logic and reason only take a person so far.

"We have to _fix_ this, John," she whispers, her lip trembling with the weight behind her words. "It was my dad's last wish."

The words pull at him, and he nods, solemn. And then he does something he hasn't done in at least a few years - he pulls her hand in his towards him and wraps an arm around her trembling shoulders, so her cheek is resting against his vest, her head tucked perfectly underneath his chin. He feels her body release some of its earlier tension as both of her hands go to wrap around his torso. Her feet are in between his, the entire length of her small form pressed up against him and, though the contact has been foreign to him for a very long time, he welcomes the contact and the warmth it brings.

He realizes this simple act of holding her is calming her down, and that makes it all the better.

His other hand finds its way to cup the back of her head, fingers weaving in with her hair. Her hands are clutched against his back so tightly now, he's both afraid and unwilling to pull away from her. He can't remember the last time he comforted somebody like this, just with the physical presence of _being_ there, no words required.

He can't remember it ever making him feel quite like this, either.

Her hands shift down his back to rest at his waist and he watches her every move as she pulls back to look up at him. He loosens his arms just enough to allow her to do so, still wrapped about her shoulders. Her face is almost unreadable and, if it were anyone else, they would've missed the question in her eyes, in her barely-parted lips.

"John-"

The sharp rapping of a knock cuts her off, and Blake contemplates killing the person on the other side of the door. He'll have to settle for glaring.

Anders enters the room and, while Blake steps back to put a little more space between him and Gwen, he doesn't let go of her hand.

The cop exchanges a brief, questioning look with him, and then turns his attention to Gwen. "Are you ready to finish up, Ms. Gallo?"

He phrases it as a question, but Blake knows it's not a request; the precinct is itching to get to the bottom of the high profile murders. He looks at Gwen, whose eyes are already on him, and nods imperceptibly.

She straightens up and follows Anders out of the room, giving Blake's hand one last squeeze before leaving.

Blake watches as the door shuts closed behind her, taking with it the faint scent of her perfume and her bright auburn hair. He fists his hand, the one that was holding hers, and then drops it at his side. In the reflection of the two way mirror, he gives himself a long hard look, but even he's not fooling himself.

_Better go call the Commissioner_, he thinks to distract himself.

X X X

"Jesus, Gwen, I'm sorry," Mikey's voice crackles over the line.

She turns onto another street, headed for old town. Her phone sits in her lap, Mikey on speakerphone.

"Are you okay?" He asks hesitantly. "I know that's a rotten thing to ask, especially since I know the answer, but. . .you know."

Gwen closes her eyes for a second, her throat tightening a little. She's feeling too much fear to properly mourn her father at the moment, having cried all her tears out at the precinct earlier, some of which fell in front of Blake. At the moment, she is focusing on one thing: the cat.

"I'll be okay," she answers finally, taking another right. Her eyes follow the street numbers as they count down on odds to where she hopes she'll find the cat - or rather, Selina Kyle. That's the woman's name. After describing to Anders her earlier encounter with the burglar, she'd made a few calls to her father's office. Even her father was smart enough to keep tabs on his hired associates.

"I know you will, Gwen," Mikey tells her. "You're a tough kid, that's why I like you so much, why you were so different from. . ."

He trails off unexpectedly, but Gwen knows what he was going to say. _Why you were so different from your father_, she thinks. Night and day would be putting it lightly, but there's one thing she and her father didn't disagree on: loyalty.

The last thing he ever did was warn her, and she's not going to waste it.

She sees the apartment complex come into view, street number matching the one she jotted down on a scratch piece of paper earlier. Pulling to the side, she parks and takes Mikey off speakerphone, pressing the phone up to her ear.

"Where are the boys this weekend? On campus?" She asks.

"Uh - well, yeah, they are," Mikey replies after a confused beat. "Didn't want to risk the drive with the bad weather they're forecasting."

Gwen nods to herself and then says, "You should go visit them. Use one of my parents' cars, you know where the keys are. Take a vacation."

"Gwen. . ." he begins, suspicious. "What is this? What's going on?"

"Just-" she starts, and rubs her forehead, a small headache beginning to bloom between her eyes. Too many tears and not enough water. She tries to ignore how suddenly exhausted she feels, shoves it aside and tells herself to focus. "Just do it. Please? For me. I know Alden and Jake would love to see you. I'll call you in a few days."

He promises he'll leave, and Gwen takes a deep breath, knowing that's one less person she needs to worry about. With her mother gone and Mikey on his way out of town, the only other person in danger is Blake.

X X X

Selina's hand is reaching for her keys on the hallway table when the doorbell sounds, and she pauses, equal parts wary and curious. She steps forward to look in the peephole and lets out a strangled sound when she sees who it is.

"Feel free to take this the wrong way," she says, as she opens the door and gives Gwen a half hearted glare. "But you _must _have a death wish."

Something in the girl's expression has her arching an eyebrow. It was surprisingly easy to startle her this morning, but there's a certain, distant look in her eyes that Selina recognizes all too well. It's that look that doesn't make her slam the door immediately in the girl's face, and instead she jerks her chin towards the inside of her apartment.

She watches Gwen step over the threshold with only mild trepidation and shuts the door behind her. Crossing her arms, Selina gives the girl a look, waiting. In the fading afternoon light of the apartment, she can make out the slight puffiness below her eyes.

"I thought you'd be gone by now," she says after a moment. Her voice is different, too, Selina notes. Quieter, not as stubborn, not like Jen's used to be.

"I'm working on it, but people keep popping by," Selina quips without humor. "You really _are_ too smart for your own good."

A ghost of a smile traces over the girl's lips, but it doesn't reach her eyes. Not even close. "My dad. He. . .was very thorough, keeping track of who he worked with."

Irritation, that's Selina's first reaction, for getting into bed with businessmen who possess half a brain. And then she realizes why the girl looks off, sounds off. Past tense.

For some reason, it makes Selina looks away, unable to maintain eye contact with the girl. Something tightens in her chest, and she remembers the day she'd first met Jen - how she'd been naive enough to try and pick pocket a pickpocket.

"Tough break, kid," Selina gets out, looking at the girl. Gwen's brown doe eyes stare back and she swats down what little compassion is attempting to bloom in her, and says, "So what're you doing here?"

The strict edge in her tone must snap her out of her reverie, because Gwen straightens up a little. Selina's seen the action all too many times, mostly from young kids on the street trying not to be the next mark of a conman. Tough kids in the making.

"I need your help," she says finally, her voice surprisingly solid.

Selina blinks, and cocks her head. "Help. . .aside from assaulting you on several occasions, what would _ever_ possess you to ask _me_ for help?"

"Because I need you to teach me what you know," Gwen answers, unfazed by the references to their past encounters. "How to steal, how to fight. How to stay alive."

For a moment, Selina's at a loss for words. She can't remember the last time somebody asked for her help and caught her truly by surprise all in one fell swoop. She supposes there's a first for everything, even after all she's been through in her thirty odd years of living.

_No,_ she reminds herself. _Not living; surviving, just like Gwen said._

Selina shakes her head, both to rid herself of that morose realization, and to set the silly little girl in front of her straight.

"You want revenge, honey," she says. "I get that. Believe me, I do. But you're gonna end up in your own grave if you go that route. Trust me."

Gwen's slowly shaking her head the moment Selina finishes speaking, her lips pressed together in that stubborn way that reminds her of Jen.

"Not revenge," she says, so seriously as if she's swearing on her own life. "Penance."

This piques Selina's interest, but only a little, and not nearly enough to consider the girl's request. She has plans to get the hell out of dodge tomorrow morning, and nothing is going to stop her, not even the ghost of Jen.

She turns on her heel and calls over her shoulder, "For who, darling? Yourself?"

She hears Gwen pad behind her, hesitant at first, and then she's standing in the doorway with one hand on the doorframe, in the same spot Wayne had been standing earlier. Selina shakes off the comparison.

"For my father," Gwen answers. "For everybody he's hurt."

Selina eyes the few suitcases she has packed, running over a last minute list in her mind as she shakes her head again, back turned to the girl.

"That's not your problem, sweetheart," Selina tells her. She turns to face Gwen, a hand on her hip.

The girl's looking like she's closed to crying again, but to her credit, she bites her lip and doesn't allow herself to do so.

"Of _course_ it's my problem," she whispers, voice rough from the strain of holding back tears. "It was either going to be him or me pulling the strings."

Selina's eyes narrow, a pang of jealousy hitting her, unbidden, at the realization of what Gwen's saying. "That's what all good daddies do. Put their daughters first."

Gwen must catch change in tone of Selina's voice, because she tilts her head, mind honing in one where the sudden edge might have come from. But before she can say anything, another phrase or another question that'll make Selina second guess what she's going to do later that night, she cuts her off.

"Heart to heart's over, Gwen," she tells her, steeling herself. "I'm not a lost cause kind of girl. You know where the door is."

No place for bleeding hearts in Gotham.

X X X

Outside, the rain is thundering against the glass-paned windows of Wayne Manor. Bruce's eyes drift to study the rivulets as they trace in uneven paths down the glass, momentarily distracted. It was raining like this the day of his parents' funeral, and he remembers how Alfred had walked up behind him and put a hand on his shoulder. A gentle, comforting anchor to the present, an aid to keep from drowning in the white noise of his family's tragedy.

It occurs to him, belatedly, as Miranda's standing there before him, that the solace she wants to offer - while kind - is misguided. He could very easily spend his few hours before meeting Bane trying to forget the nearly insurmountable challenge that awaits him.

Bane is his equal, physically and mentally, but Bruce will push harder. Every man has something to lose, and with Alfred no longer at the mansion, his last weakness is gone for Bane to exploit.

"Bruce?"

He looks back at Miranda, her arms nestled around his waist, her hands pressed against his lower back. Making up his mind, he takes half a step back, and removes his hands from where they're wrapped around her shoulders.

His voice is quiet when he speaks, barely above a whisper. "I think you should leave, Miranda."

She doesn't register what he's saying at first, and then he sees an interesting mixture of confusion and irritation play across her features. She steps back slowly, pulling her soaking sweater tighter about her shoulders. He calls her a cab and she doesn't look back over her shoulder as she climbs in.

The wrought iron front door shuts closed behind him, the sound echoing down the empty halls of the manor. He turns away and heads for his father's study.


End file.
